


Weighty and Troublesome Things

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:55:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 123,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-canon AU / Canon AU from S2.  It's been ten years since Arthur drifted away from him on the Lake of Avalon, but even inside Camelot's walls, Merlin is still lost. Hiding from those who know him and cut off from his former life in self-imposed exile, he can't resist the temptation when a mysterious stranger offers him the chance to set things right. Merlin returns to the past, to an innocent, simpler time, armed with the knowledge of Arthur's fate. He knows the odds (and the stubborn people - Arthur in particular) are stacked against him and the obstacles he must overcome seem insurmountable. Can destiny be nudged enough to save Arthur's life, and is the price too high?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - References some scenes/lines straight from canon. (I feel like I should also warn for glacially slow build and ridiculous amounts of UST). I have to thank **aku_rin** for being my cheerleader and for agreeing to be my artist as well. You’ll notice this is being posted without art because I flaked shortly before the final draft deadline when life got a little topsy turvy. **Aku** , I know you’d have created beautiful art for me if I’d only given you a story. I also have to thank my wingsister [Scylla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla/pseuds/Scylla)for all the moral support and assistance even though her familiarity with canon is pretty much based on tumblr gifs. (Something I will change!) You’re a rockstar. To **Jinx** , I know I threw a ton at you to beta last minute and we’re still working out the kinks, but I promise you the lack of sleep is something I will be grateful for for the rest of my days! To **the_muppet** , you are amazing and your patience and all around awesomeness are inspiring. Thank you so much for giving a slacker a chance.  
> Note: This is split into 2 parts. I've been fighting with trying to create shorter chapters, and I may come back to that, but for now I just need to get this posted!

Merlin loves disguises.

In his younger years, amidst all the hijinks at the castle and trying to stay a step ahead of being caught-out for what he was, he’d discovered that sometimes hiding in plain sight was the best way to avoid detection.  With the aging spell he created an odd sort of alter-ego in his wizened old self and that sufficed well enough at the time.

It hadn’t really occurred to him to try something else – something _other_ than an aging spell that made him all but unrecognizable, or perhaps the occasional stealing of an enemy soldier’s uniform – until he realized he needed a way to return to Camelot and stay hidden even from those who knew him best. 

He couldn’t bring himself to go to Camelot – not as himself, as Merlin, because he knew he’d never return to that fair city as the same boy who’d spent the best and worst days of his life there.  No, Merlin’s life in Camelot had ended with Arthur. He also couldn’t try as Dragoon the Great; too many people would recognize him now.  And even if they hadn’t put two and two together to realize just _who_ the old man was, there would still be questions from all those who’d seen him defeat the Saxons at Camlann.

Arthur’s state funeral, though, was something he couldn’t bring himself to miss. He needed to be there, to see his King mourned properly. Mourned by his adoring wife and the Knights who were more than mere brothers-in-arms, and the rest of those he held dear and called friend. Mourned by the people he’d given his life to serve and see protected, people who loved him.  Mourned by more than just a serving boy who had failed him – no matter what venerable Dragons tried to argue.

And so, with a bit of research, no small amount of magic and just the right costuming, he’d watched the almost empty byre – laid only with Arthur’s dress cloak (the one he’d hardly ever worn because he’d complained it chafed) and his ceremonial sword – as it was set ablaze, disguised as a minor Nobleman from one of Camelot’s vassals. 

That first time had been… difficult.  To walk past his own friends, the Queen and even Gaius, to see their unabashed grief, unable to acknowledge them or offer them any words of comfort. It had almost been enough to convince him to never do something so painfully reckless again. 

The second time, only days later, in the guise of a Camelot page (ubiquitous at functions in the Castle’s great hall) he’d watched Gwen’s coronation from a place far in the back of the room and it grew just a bit easier.  He’d planned to avoid it, didn’t want to put himself in the path of all that heartache without the ability to offer even a token comfort, but did it for Arthur.  He knew Arthur would have wanted him there as witness.

Each time thereafter, it grew less and less difficult to move amongst his old life looking like someone new.  He went almost entirely unremarked and was content with that. Content to see Camelot and her people thrive and prosper and her laws change for the better.

Although thrice, each time as a different person, he’d been stopped by Gaius.  And he knew Gaius knew him.

The first time, he’d passed it off as mere coincidence - attending the small and somewhat secluded lake-side service for Sir Gwaine looking like one of Camelot’s own guard - and Gaius had simply asked the nearest body for assistance in stepping up the rather steep embankment. Though, there’d been a moment where Gaius’ eyes met his, and his expression had gone soft as he briefly squeezed Merlin’s arm and said, “Thank you, my boy.”  Just that moment though, that passed in an instant before Gaius moved off to join the Queen. 

The second time, once again wearing the face and garb of a young noble from a neighboring kingdom, he’d come to witness and offer his congratulations at the marriage of Sir Leon and Queen Guinevere. (An event that hadn’t entirely surprised him. Leon had always been a stalwart friend and Gwen’s long reliance on him as her most trusted advisor grew to something more. Perhaps not love, not entirely, not right away, but definitely a mutual respect and caring friendship that promised to blossom further).

Gaius had approached him at the banquet afterwards, smiling and speaking about his joy for the happy couple and the bright future of Camelot.  Merlin might have brushed that off as coincidence as well, had Gaius not gripped tight to his hand and looked pointedly into his eyes and said, “I think it’s what Arthur would have wanted. For her to be happy. Don’t you think?” And Merlin had nodded and swallowed hard and looked away, blinking to hide the glint of welling moisture in his eyes.  Gaius just gave his hand a pat after that and then moved off into the milling celebrants.

The final time, Merlin had gone to a bit of effort to pull off the chance to attend the festival in celebration of the birth of Leon and Gwen’s first daughter as one of the many jugglers and acrobats hired to entertain the crowds.  There could be no mistaking the way Gaius – stooped now, and shuffling along with steps so slow it made Merlin’s chest ache – sought him out and took a few minutes to just chatter happily and then took a surprisingly tight grip on his hands and whispered, “I’ve missed you, my boy.”

“How did you know?” He’d asked – he knew he looked the part of a spry, aging but still nimble juggler with thinning hair and a scraggly beard.

And Gaius had laughed and shook his head in mock-disappointment. “You never did learn how to hide your eyes, Merlin.”

So Merlin sat with him into the night, talking and laughing – never directly or openly, but in round about sorts of ways - and then later with the help of a miraculously sober Sir Percival (the only of the Knights still standing upright), escorted Gaius to his chambers.  There were still two plates set on the table.

At Gaius’ funeral, Merlin gave in to defying one of the rules he’d set for himself. 

Though magic was now openly practiced in Camelot (albeit with carefully considered laws in place) he’d never disguised himself as a practitioner.  It felt… wrong to him, somehow.  For Gaius, though, he knew he had to be as true to himself as possible. So if Merlin couldn’t attend (and it gutted him to see Gwen looking so hopefully out at the crowd of mourners, only to shake her head and sigh sadly as she turned into Leon’s embrace) – at least he could _finally_ be a Sorcerer in Camelot. 

Gaius had been named the Queen’s Advisor of Magic and with his guidance, the laws had slowly changed in Camelot. No longer were those caught practicing magic immediately imprisoned or put to death.  Gaius had been cautious but generous with his advice for change, and though it took time - the weight of Uther’s rule wasn’t an easy mantle for the populace to shake off –eventually magic became, if not commonplace, then at least something that wasn’t feared or reviled.

There were many magic users, many people whose lives Gaius had directly or indirectly changed, at the funeral.  The Queen herself requested that any who wished to contribute to a display of magic (without risk of harm to any persons, of course) to honor Gaius were welcome to do so.   It had surprised, and touched Merlin to see just how many people stepped forward with simple tricks and displays of their home-spun prowess – conjured roses twining around the boat, a plethora of illusory butterflies and even some shapes conjured in smoke (an old favorite of Merlin’s).

When all was done and Gwen spoke the final, lovely words about the man who’d meant so much to all of them, Merlin quietly whispered a few words of his own. They set the small skiff which held Gaius’ body – dressed all in stately red robes trimmed in gold, that Merlin knew he would’ve fussed over  – drifting on the surface of the water towards the middle of the lake. Before the archer could fire his flame-tipped arrow, Merlin whispered again and set the boat alight in a whoosh of riotously and wildly unnaturally colored flames. 

They burned hot and bright and fierce for a long while, casting of bursts of improbable sparks and plumes of illusory smoke into the air. As they finally lowered, their fuel consumed, he spoke his final incantation and a dragon of golden sparks and crimson cinders rose up high in the sky, wings flapping and mouth open in a silent roar, before scattering to ashes and nothing. It made the crowd murmur and shift, hints of fear and awe and reverence, but the secret smile that he saw flit across Gwen’s lips said she recognized Merlin’s handiwork in the tribute.

Merlin knew Gaius would have loved it.

So, yes, Merlin has grown to appreciate disguises and his ability to create them well enough that he can blend anywhere, in that he can come and go in Camelot as he pleases. He doesn’t spend _much_ time there – only visits on occasions that he feels would be important to Arthur – but he’ll always consider Camelot his home, so the freedom to do so makes things easier.

He’s wearing a rather simple disguise this time: a spice merchant from far beyond the borders of Mercia. He’s taken extra care to weather his skin and his shaggy brownish hair is mussed and wind-curled. He’s dressed in comfortable travelling robes that are colored green with purple embroidery in the hems and panels of copper beading on the arms and chest. Somewhat gaudy, but with just enough of an exotic flare to suit the character he’s created for himself. 

He’s in Camelot for a much different celebration than many he’s attended in the past. It’s the tenth anniversary of the battle of Camlann – and the beginning of a decade of peace for Camelot and all of the surrounding kingdoms (Arthur’s Albion, as Merlin likes to think of it) – and Queen Guinevere and her Knight Consort Leon have called for a festival off all the Kingdoms to celebrate that peace.

It is also the tenth anniversary of Arthur’s death and Merlin wants to spend it surrounded by Arthur’s city and his people. 

He has a pack horse laden with cases and sacks of spice (that he legitimately did get from the spice markets off the coast) that he’s left with a stable hand (promising an extra coin to watch over his goods) and he’s got a room upstairs in the Rising Sun, where he’s currently enjoying a mug of the establishments finest.  (If he’s sitting at the table where he and Arthur had spent that last night drinking and gambling and behaving like nothing but rowdy peasants and the best of friends – there’s no one to remark on it)

It’s still early afternoon and the Inn is rather quiet, so when a stranger approaches and nods at the empty bench across from him, Merlin nods in return. He tips his mug to the man who settles down opposite and then goes back to the quiet contemplation of his ale.  

“It must be difficult.” The man says, and there’s an odd sibilance to his voice that Merlin can’t quite place. He’s travelled quite a lot in the last ten years, even beyond the lands of Albion, but the man’s accent isn’t one he’s heard before.

“What’s that?” Merlin asks, casually and uncurious. He’s not much in the mood for idle conversation, but he also doesn’t feel up to deflecting it either.

“Not being able to be yourself.”

Merlin’s gaze flicks up over the rim of his mug and he sees the stranger staring at him in open curiosity.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, miming confusion, “I don’t understand.”  Until he knows whether or not this man is even talking nonsense or genuinely knows something, he won’t give anything away.

The man lifts a hand – a few odd, golden bangles hanging loosely at his wrists – and gestures to Merlin.  “This,” the hand circles in the air again, “isn’t who you really are.  You’ve changed yourself to look like someone else.”

Merlin cants his head to the side. “That’s an odd thing to suggest.” Is all he offers in return.

The man chuckles at that. “It’s an odd thing to do.  I wonder why you don’t want to be known as who you really are?”

There’s something vaguely threatening in that, but again, Merlin doesn’t let himself rise to the bait. “Are we ever who we think we really are?” he responds, just as cryptically.

Another wheezy chuckle follows and the man nods. “Fair point.” He slaps a hand down on the table. “Fair point.  It’s just that I can…” and the hand comes up again, to twirl rather absently near the man’s eyes. “’see’ who you really are.”

Huh. Merlin hadn’t expected that.  He’s never been spotted (or at least called out) by another Sorcerer before, though that’s clearly what’s happened here.  

“Ah,” is all Merlin says at first.  He’s not sure how much he wants to share and his instincts are telling him that the answer to that question is ‘very little’. He trusts his instincts. “Well I’m not up to no good, so you needn’t worry.” He says with a soft laugh and then slowly swishes the remaining ale in his mug while he concocts a plausible explanation.

Not that he thinks he owes it to this man, but he doesn’t want to risk this stranger raising any issue with the guards. He knows nothing would likely come of it (and even if it did he’s more concerned about being exposed than spending a night in the cells). “There are just people here I would rather not speak to, for no reasons other than personal ones.”

The man bobs his head again, muttering, “Fair enough.  Although, some might consider the lengths you’ve gone to a bit extreme."

Merlin looks – really looks, no more of this brief glancing over the top of his mug – at his table companion. (The over-the-mug-glancing is force-of-habit as he favors indirect eye contact these days – to hide his eyes as much as possible. True, he doesn’t think there are any people left in Camelot, with Gaius and Arthur gone, who would know him by his eyes; but he’d caught Percival giving him a strange look once: squinting at him in puzzlement before shaking his head and moving on. Since then, he’s careful about who he lets look him in the eye).

Nondescript.

It describes the stranger in an oddly apt way, despite how contrary that sounds in Merlin’s head. Plain, middle-brown hair that isn’t overly short or long, average and unremarkable features, bland, earthen-colored clothes that are neither too fine or too shabby.  Merlin has tried to capture that level of ‘so average as to be almost invisible’ in his various disguises many times over, but has never truly succeeded as this man has.  He doesn’t know if that means the man sitting across from him is incognito – like himself – or just that… forgettable.

“You pose strange questions, my friend.” Merlin says, and he keeps a carefully neutral smile on his face.

“I suppose I do.” The man acknowledges with a half-hearted sort of one-shouldered shrug. “But you seem amenable to them.”

It’s almost a question, so Merlin inclines his head.

“Well then,” the man continues, “I suppose you won’t mind if they get stranger still.” He smiles then, wider, showing teeth, and it’s the first expression Merlin’s seen that gives him any sort of personality. He looks almost…enigmatic.

Merlin lifts a hand off his ale and indicates the stranger should go on.

“You say there are people you’d rather not speak to. And that your reasons are personal ones.”

As these are just his own words repeated back at him, Merlin sees no harm in an agreeing nod.

“I don’t think I’m being too bold as to suggest that there are, perhaps, events in your past that may be at the root of these reasons.”

“No, that’s not too bold.” Despite himself, Merlin feels his curiosity begin to build.

That eager smile expands, curling up into the stranger’s cheeks. “Would you, if given the chance, go back in time and change these events?”

“I’m sorry?” Merlin has to have misheard the man. “Did you just suggest going back in time? That’s not possible.”  Even as he says it though, just the thought of all the things he could do… all the things he could change and prevent from happening…  It’s a heady thought.

“I did suggest that,” the stranger nods and the grin is positively maniacal in its glee. “And it _is_ possible.” He says the latter with a fanatic’s conviction. 

Merlin can’t help the derision he knows must be evident when he asks, “How?”

The man rears back, as if the question surprises him. “Why, with magic, of course.”

As Merlin watches, he reaches into a pocket of his rather shapeless and drab jacket.  Merlin looses his hand from where it has started to clench around the handle of his tankard, ready to let fly with a protection spell if the stranger’s move proves threatening.

“Please, no fear.” What the man withdraws is small enough to be concealed by a closed fist. He rotates his hand, palm upward, and uncurls his fingers from around an egg-sized piece of crystal.  It looks to Merlin like it may have been hewn from the Crystal Cave, although the facets are so etched with sigils and symbols as to be nearly free of the reflective surfaces on which he’d normally view the future.

“And that is?” Merlin asks, couching his curiosity with a somewhat dismissive sneer.  He doesn’t want to appear too interested.

“This is the focus.  A catalyst if you will, that makes the spell possible.” He offers the crystal to Merlin to examine.

He does so, picking it up and studying it in the hazy, early afternoon half-light filtering into the tavern through dingy windows.   He recognizes many of the designs that are carved into the surface of the crystal; symbols of the old religion, druid glyphs, and marks and words of power from many other ancient sources all intertwine in surprising harmony.  

Merlin hands it back and can’t stop himself from asking, “How does it work.”

Pocketing the crystal, the stranger hesitates. “I don’t know if I could explain it properly. I… I truly don’t mean to be cryptic, but I believe it’s something you’d need to see for yourself.” He obviously sees that Merlin is about to dismiss the whole thing, because he hurries on. “What I _can_ tell you is that it will essentially transport you,” he frowns slightly, “well, the essence of you, back to a period of time that you choose.”

“What do you mean by the essence?”

The stranger points at Merlin’s chest, reaching across the table though not daring to get too close. “I mean that it’s not your physical self that travels.  I’d call it your soul if that didn’t sound rather frilly.” He lets out a gruff, wheezing sort of chuckle, but sobers when he sees that Merlin isn’t amused. “You’d end up back at an earlier point of your life.  Like waking up in your younger body, but with all the memories of your life to this point intact. Able to act with that foreknowledge.”

It sounds… impossible.   

And ridiculously tempting.

For a minute, Merlin lets himself imagine what he could do given the opportunity to go back. If he’d had all the knowledge of what was to come, back in those early days in Camelot.   The things he could change, horrible things he could stop happening, the people he could save… 

He tries to quash the feeling that’s welling up; the desperate need to do whatever it takes to save him… To save Arthur.   He’d thought that after ten years alone, perhaps that instinct wouldn’t still exist. Silly of him to think that really, since that failure is something he faces each morning when he wakes, and is often the last thought on his mind before sleep clutches at him.

Merlin knows that some of this must be showing on his face, because the stranger sits back, looking coolly triumphant.  He looks like he expected this. 

Merlin knows - he _knows  -_  he should be suspicious. That he should get up and leave right this minute and walk away from this odd man and his ridiculous stories.

But he can’t.  Because if there is even the most infinitesimal possibility that what the stranger suggests is genuine, Merlin knows he can’t walk away from that.

“Let’s just say that this _is_ possible.  You know I have to ask, ‘why me?’” He feels like there’s some obvious explanation to that that is just outside his reasoning.

The stranger seems to have a ready answer though. “Your magic. I told you, I can see through this glamor you’ve cast over yourself, but that’s only because I’ve been trained to see what is truly there. It’s a rare ability, but not a very powerful one.  But I also know the kind of power it takes to create such a convincing illusion.  This spell and this crystal,” he hesitates, lips tightening it what looks like frustration, “I have the understanding of them and the knowledge behind them, but I lack the power to complete the spell.” He shrugs then, casually. “I need you.  And I think you need this,” he pats his jacket and the crystal within.

“And I’m to just trust you?” Merlin scoffs. “How do I know you’ll not just use my power to you own end and leave me with nothing?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll take my word on it?” The stranger gives what looks like it might be an attempt at a charming smile.

It’s less than effective. 

The smile falls away, though not without a knowing slant shaping it before it disappears. “I thought not.  Look, the spell is created for two. I cannot complete it alone, nor could you. I can only tell you that if you help me with this, it will work for the both of us.”

When Merlin continues to stare at him in stony silence, the man throws up his hands. “Fine, I can see that there’s nothing I can say that will convince you.   Just, think on it, will you? That’s all I ask.”

He stands, fixing Merlin with a narrow-eyed stare. “Really think about what you might change if you could go back… think about those people you’re avoiding with that costume of yours.  Think about what it would be like to fix that, to be yourself again.” He holds Merlin’s gaze for a long span of seconds and then finally jerks his head to the side, almost abashed. “If you change your mind, meet me in the Darkling Woods tonight at dusk. There’s an old Druid clearing about a half mile in, near a stream. I’ll be there, waiting.”  With that he walks away from the table and exits the tavern without a backwards glance.

Suddenly Merlin can’t stand being cooped up in the dim shadowed spaces indoors. He drains the dregs of his ale, grimacing slightly as it’s gone flat and tepid, detours by the bar to drop off the empty mug and then heads out into the bustling activity of Camelot’s lower city.

He wanders the streets, ducking in and out of the steady flow of foot traffic, dodging porters hauling bolts of cloth and baskets of fresh produce and crates of goods for barter or sale, stopping now and then to examine random wares at the market stalls. He knows he could easily fetch the supplies he’d gathered and set himself up a small spot in the market row to trade spices and herbs and solidify his disguise even further.

Instead he keeps walking. 

His gaze is drawn upwards, now and again, lighting on the window of his old room off Gaius’ chambers and then up to the parapet where he’d said a farewell to Arthur, unsure if he’d be returning from helping the people of Ealdor fend off a warlord.  He passes the spigot where he knows Gwen used to draw water in her days as a servant, remembering the sight of it spewing out sand instead of water when Camelot was beset by the Unicorn’s curse. His feet take him into the square and up to the well where they’d found Uther the time that Morgana had poisoned his mind with the mandrake root.   The guards don’t pay him much heed as he makes his way near the steps that lead up into the castle proper, and remembers sitting on those very steps after he and Arthur and his newly-made knights reclaimed Camelot from Morgause’s undead army.

Coloring each of those memories – good or bad - is the knowledge that he’ll never again have anyone to share them with.  For all the Dragon’s promises that Arthur is meant to rise again – whatever that actually means (sometimes Merlin wonders if all of dragonkind were as cryptic as Kilgharrah)  - Merlin  knows he’s facing the rest of his life – however long that may be – alone. 

And it scares him especially because he realizes that he’s not showing his age the same way as his old friends.  Gwen is still lovely, but there are subtle strands of grey in her hair and the weight of ruling a kingdom (not to mention motherhood thrice-over) has left its mark in the fine lines around her eyes and smile. Leon’s beard is shot through with silver, and he’s likely added a notch or two to his belt (though keeping up with three daughters probably keeps him more fit than daily sword drills). Even Percival, who can still get away without sleeves to cover those arms, has a few age-lines on his baby face, and his hairline is just starting to recede. Merlin knows he looks like he’s not aged a day since Arthur died – and it’s possible he hasn’t.

He has no idea what that means.  Is he meant to stay this way for all of time, or will it all catch up to him eventually? 

The truth that he has the most trouble admitting to himself is that despite all the talk of prophecy and destiny from Druids and dragons and anyone with an inkling of the ability to foretell the future, he sometimes (far too often) thinks that maybe this _isn’t_ how it’s supposed to be. 

It’s never felt right that Arthur’s destiny could not be changed. That he was meant to _die_ so that Albion could thrive.  That Merlin is meant to go on alone… 

Not a day passes that he doesn’t wonder how things would be different if Arthur were still alive.

He could change all of it.  Fix it. Set things right.

 _If_ – and this is the crux – _if_ the stranger is telling the truth about the spell.

He doesn’t even try to lie to himself about where he’s going as he returns to the Inn to collect his horse. He leaves behind all his gear and the expensive spices and all the trappings of his current disguise (any coin that Tom the Innkeeper can make from selling it is well-deserved).  The only personal item he cares at all about is one he carries with him – Arthur’s mother’s ring.    He took it only with the thought of returning it to Arthur one day… at least that’s what he tells himself.

The ride to the darkling woods takes him the rest of the afternoon though he never urges his horse above a trot. He uses the time to consider what he’s doing, and to call himself a fool and talk himself out of going over and over again. In truth, little of the ride is spent on those thoughts (even though he should be doing nothing but talking sense into himself – because this is ridiculous, really).

Mostly he thinks about the ‘when’ of it all.  When would be the best time to go back to?

His first instinct is, naturally, to the battle at Camlann so he can stop Mordred.  But then he thinks about what made Mordred who he became at the end. And that leads to thinking about Morgana and all the wrong choices that turned her into the dark and twisted person he ran through, butchered, without a second thought. They’d been friends once. He’d cared for her as much as Gwen, almost as much as Arthur… 

Could he save her too? 

And Lancelot? 

And his own father? 

Or is that being greedy? 

All these thoughts and he doesn’t even know if he believes in the possibility of this spell.

Yet, as the sky purples and the light dims, he finds himself dismounting near the clearing the stranger mentioned.  He draws a bundle of clothing from one of the saddlebags; the gaudy robe feels like more of a disguise than the glamour he wears.  He removes both; murmuring the words to the counter spell even as he shrugs into a regular tunic and his sturdy old coat.  He wants to face this as himself.

He doesn’t bother to tie the horse’s reins, just loops them over the pommel.  The sturdy bay gelding – purchased from Camelot’s own stables - is trained to ground-tie, so Merlin takes his bridle, turns him back in the direction of the keep and slaps him hard on the haunch.  The horse gives an indignant snort and jogs away.  He’ll find his way home. Just another loose end Merlin doesn’t want to have to worry about.  

If – and this is the likeliest result – this doesn’t work, he’s made the walk from the woods to Camelot plenty of times before.

Merlin makes no effort to hide his approach as he ducks beneath low-hanging branches and skirts tangling brush (despite Arthur’s criticism, Merlin _did_ learn some of the lessons in stealth he tried to impart) and ends up breaking through the trees to stand just across the clearing from the stranger.  There’s a small campfire already crackling merrily at the man’s feet and a heavy pot hanging over it with steam wafting up from it in whitish tendrils.

“You came.” The man sounds… not surprised, but not unsurprised either.  It’s an odd sort of ambivalent tone.  The fact that he doesn’t question who Merlin is - since he no longer wears the face of a spice merchant – is something Merlin thinks _he_ should probably question.

He doesn’t.  He just nods curtly and says, “I did.”

“So you believe me then?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No.”

The man frowns. “Then why are you here? Why did you come?”

“Because I don’t entirely disbelieve either.” It’s the truth, although he doesn’t bother to mention how much of that belief is the result of some ridiculous, desperate hope.

This makes the man grin that wildly odd sort of grin – which in the firelight looks rather manic. It’s a smile Merlin has seen on the faces of religious zealots in a fervor, or it’s more feral cousin worn by knights charging into what they know could be their last battle. Merlin doesn’t entirely trust that smile, but he’s been known to follow it blindly a time or two.

“So have you decided? Will you help me cast the spell, then?”

Merlin inclines his head. “I will.” He holds up a cautionary hand. “But be warned, friend.  You asked this of me because you recognized that I have power.” He lets his eyes go molten, not casting anything but just letting the magic gather. “It’s power I’m not afraid to use against someone who’s wronged me.”

The man spreads his hands beatifically. “I know that there are no reassurances left that I can give that will convince you of the veracity of my words, but I speak the truth and you have nothing to fear from me.” He beckons Merlin closer. “I only wish to see this spell cast.” There’s a hint of familiar desperation in the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of his smile.   Merlin wonders what the stranger’s so eager to fix in his own life.

Merlin walks across the clearing and lets himself be guided into position by the stranger. They stand on opposite sides of the small fire pit, and Merlin glances down to see that it’s definitely _not_ stew bubbling away in the pot. 

“What do you need me to do?” Merlin asks. 

“Just stand there and hold this,” he removes the etched crystal from his pocket and hands it over to Merlin. “Above the smoke, please.” He demonstrates, holding his cupped hands over the center of the kettle.

Merlin complies. It’s far enough above the flames that Merlin feels only a steady gust of warm air tickling over the backs of his hands and wrists.  The drawing night is leeching the warmth from the day, so it’s actually quite pleasant.

“I need to add some final components to the cauldron and then I will recite the words,” the man explains and then kneels down. “When I’m done, I will stand and place my hands over yours and finish the incantation.   I only ask that you please do not interrupt and please do not move your hands.” He huffs a brief laugh, and there’s something vaguely familiar about the mock-frustration in it. “It’s a lot of words and I don’t want to have to start over.”

He swallows down the laughter and looks up at Merlin then.  His eyes are intense and gleaming with more than just firelight. “Have you chosen a time to return to? You must be sure and clear about this.”

“Yes,” Merlin acknowledges.  “I’m very certain.”

“Good. I will begin.”

Because of the flames it’s hard to see what he’s putting into the bubbling mixture, but Merlin thinks he recognizes pixie dust (not an easy thing to come by) the claws of some rather large beast (definitely larger than any creature that would be found naturally) and several dried leaves and flowers that the man crumbles into powder before letting them drop into the strange concoction.  The smoke changes color – from sulfurous yellow to bluish to a rosy pink – with each addition.

The man wipes his hands on his thighs and then stands abruptly and Merlin has to fight the urge to pull away when the man’s hands come to rest on his. He holds firm, but not too tight. Merlin could pull away if he needs to. 

Then the stranger begins to speak.  Merlin listens carefully to the words, but there’s something odd about the spell… it’s as if the words themselves are muffled by cotton batting as they leave the man’s lips.  He can hear the sound of them, but not the content. 

He stands fast though, because he can feel the magic building.  It thrums through him in a way that’s wholly familiar.  The crystal starts to glow; light seeping between the gaps of both of their hands, and Merlin is only surprised that it doesn’t feel in the least bit warm. It looks like it should burn.

The man is speaking urgently now, his voice rising in volume and octaves.  Long guttural phrases and brief sibilant bursts all sound like the strangest music to Merlin’s ears.     The man all but shouts what must be the final words of the spell.

That’s when Merlin notices it.  The light being emitted by the crystal is flowing in a definite direction. It looks like the light, or magic or some force is being drawn _from_ the stranger, _into_ the crystal and then out to Merlin. He can feel it settling around his whole being. He’s being bathed in it, subsumed by its tingling warmth.

“What is this?” he grits out. “What’s happening?”

The eyes that meet his over their joined hands are now wholly familiar (though Merlin just _can’t_ place where he knows them from) and full of sorrow.  “This is how it must be.  The spell will work.  For you.”

“But what about you?” Merlin finds he has to shout. There’s a sound accompanying the light now – a rushing, buzzing noise.  Like listening to the torrent of a waterfall through a barrier of stone.

The stranger shakes his head, slowly. He’s weakening. His skin growing sallow and sinking inward as his body hollows.  As his every essence is drawn into the crystal… “I am merely the energy needed to make it possible. It was never intended for me. _You_ must go. _You_ must set things right, Emrys.”

Merlin starts to pull his hands away, but it’s too late.  He can’t move and the noise and light are overwhelming him. 

The last thing he sees before they claim him completely is the stranger vanishing like nothing more than smoke as the very last of his energy is absorbed by the crystal.

~~~~~~~

Merlin wakes to darkness. 

He flails his arms and struggles to sit up from…

A bed?

Forcing himself to calm – inhaling deeply and exhaling slow - he gropes around. Sheets and a pillow and a lumpy mattress meet his fingers beneath him. Sure enough, he’s in a bed.

And not just any bed, he realizes, as his eyes adapt to the dark. 

 _His_ bed. 

 _His_ bed in his old room in the castle. 

Again, Merlin takes a deep breath.  Just because he’s in his old room (which looks like it always did with clothes tossed haphazardly and the cupboard door slightly open and a random book on the night table) doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t necessarily mean that the spell worked.

Merlin gets out of bed carefully – he’s just a bit woozy when he stands, but the dizzy, vertiginous feeling passes quickly enough – and looks down at himself.  He’s no longer wearing the breeches that he’d worn under the spice merchant’s robe, and is instead dressed in simple trousers and the thin linen shirt he’d preferred to sleep in.

But just because he’s wearing nightclothes doesn’t mean anything either (his mind is run amok with possibilities: that he was found unconscious in the woods and someone recognized him and brought him back to his old room in the castle is the leading theory vying for attention amongst them all).  It’s a bit more suspect when he rummages in the cupboard and – easily – pulls out his old blue tunic (it’s stacked atop several others he used to wear regularly).  He swaps it for the linen and finds his comfortable old boots at the foot of the bed.   One of his ever-present handkerchiefs is tossed on the night table, and he knots it around his neck with clumsy fingers. (He’d stopped wearing them.)

Dressed, Merlin pushes open the door as quietly as he can and steps lightly down the small flight of stairs to Gaius’ chamber. 

The soft, snuffling sound of heartachingly familiar snoring stops him in his tracks.

Gaius.  No mistaking the sound.

Merlin tip-toes across the room.  It’s surprising how familiar the route is, and how much his feet remember when to step aside for a footstool or when to shift just a bit to the right to avoid bumping his hip against the edge of a table.  This is a path this body takes frequently, no matter that his mind has long forgotten.

He stops and stares down at Gaius.  It’s impossible to tell just _when_ it is from looking at him.

He looks… like Gaius.  Peaceful in sleep. Old, but then Gaius had looked old the day they met, yet in an oddly ageless sort of way.   In all Merlin’s years at Camelot, he didn’t recall seeing Gaius look any more ‘aged’ until after...

“Arthur!” slips out on a gasp of breath.  He bites down on the sound, checks to see that he hasn’t disturbed Gaius (who snuffles, shifts a bit and then settles back to that wheezing snore) and then hastens toward the door.

He tries not to bolt the moment he’s in the halls and keeps to a hurried walk (breaking into a sprint only when he knows he’s out of site).  Although the Camelot guards were quite used to Merlin hustling through the castle – frowning sympathetically as he rushed to do Arthur’s bidding – it’s still late and midnight racing down the corridors might draw undue attention.  Merlin _can’t_ be bothered with stopping and scrambling for excuses right now.

Never has the distance to Arthur’s chambers seemed so far.  He’s panting by the time he reaches the doors and skids to a stop outside of them. 

Now that he’s here, he’s afraid to go in.  Not of Arthur – never of Arthur – but of the potential for crushing disappointment.  While evidence points to the spell having worked (there’s really no other explanation for Gaius being alive and well), he still doesn’t know _when_ he’s come back to. What if it’s after Camlann? What if he’s still too late?

Merlin swallows down on the fear quite literally, and has to fight to get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth to do so.  He eases a door open, slipping inside quietly and pads across the room to stand next to the bed.

He’s there.

Arthur.

Arthur, alive and breathing. 

Tears spring to Merlin’s eyes and he has to cover his mouth with his hands to hold back the gulping sobs that threaten.  It’s all he can do to just stay standing.

Arthur is right there, looking so vibrant and healthy and so damn young.  He’s shirtless, and has kicked the heavy red bedcovers down around his thighs.  Merlin had always hated making up his bed for the mess he made of it.   Just the thought that he’ll get the chance again… 

Merlin’s gaze rakes over Arthur’s bare chest to his ribs.  There’s no sign of the deceptively small but fatal wound from Mordred’s dragon-forged blade.   In fact, many familiar scars are missing.   He glances from abdomen to shoulder to forearm, narrowing down on the time in his own history by the map of Arthur’s body.  The mark from the Questing Beast is there, still pinkish and angry and not the silvered, barely-there mark it will become, but the curve of his shoulder is bare of the raised lines of flesh from Kilgharrah’s claws.

His eyes follow the path from Arthur’s shoulder to his neck – absent the mark from a too-close arrow – and then up over his face.  Merlin knows – _knows_ without a doubt - that this is the right time, because even softened in sleep, that face is smooth and unhewn by time and experience, lacking the sharper line of jaw and slight shadowing under his eyes…

Eyes that are open.

And staring at him.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s voice is sleep gravelly and confused.

He tries to stop the sound, knows that there will be no good explanation for it (or why he’s standing over Arthur in his room in the middle of the night wet-cheeked and clearly upset – but he’ll come up with something) but he can’t help the way his voice breaks on a groan as he says, “Arthur…”

And it’s odd enough to Arthur – even muzzy-headed as he clearly is – that he starts to sit up. “Wha’sit? What’s wrong?”

Merlin holds out his hands, patting at the air reassuringly. “No, it’s nothing, Arthur. Nothing.  Everything’s fine.” And dammit, the truth of that sets him off again, and he draws an arm back to scrub over his eyes, dragging the sleeve over them furiously to mop up the all too obvious tears. “It’s…  honestly, nothing’s wrong.”  It’s been a long time since he’s had to scramble for an explanation for his behavior but he manages a weak, “I uh… had a nightmare.”

Damn.  He really is out of practice if that’s the best he can come up with. Arthur is either going to kick him out of the room (which he really doesn’t want to happen… not yet) or he’s going to mock Merlin mercilessly (which he actually wouldn’t mind, and how pathetic is that?)

Arthur settles back into his pillows, absently tugging the blanket a little higher. “A nightmare?” he repeats, dubiously.

“Um, yeah.”

“And you came here,” Arthur says, the sentence interrupted by a yawn, “because?” He smirks then, and it’s a playful little expression. 

Dammit, Merlin really needs Arthur to stop doing things that are going to make him burst into tears.  Merlin _knows_ that smirk. Adores that smirk because despite how it might look to someone who doesn’t know him, on Arthur that smirk means he’s teasing, yes, but it’s the gentle kind of mockery – not meant to cause harm – that comes from genuine affection.

“Um…” Staring at the smirk distracts Merlin and he really has no idea what to say. “Because…?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, though they stay at half-mast after he does because he’s clearly near-to sleep. “Do you need me to fight the monsters in your nightmares, Merlin?” He even half-heartedly lifts a hand, as if to suggest going for his sword.

“No, Sire,” Merlin somehow manages to choke out (forcing it past what is, yet another, uprush of emotion clogging his chest, because there’s a part of him that desperately wants to say ‘Yes!’). “I uh, couldn’t sleep after, so I thought I’d,” he glances around the room – it’s too early to be cleaning or getting Arthur up – and his eyes settle on the chainmail thrown haphazardly over the table, “polish your armor.”

After a very long pause Arthur blinks at the armor and then again at Merlin. “Oh.” He lifts a few fingers off the coverlet, “well just be quiet about it.” He turns his head further into the pillow and mutters, “and make sure … breakfast when you wake me…”

“Yes, Sire.” Merlin whispers to an already drowsing Arthur. Merlin stands there long enough to make sure Arthur is well and truly asleep and then makes his way over to the table. He doesn’t even have a cloth for polishing and dragging the heavy mail across the table is going to be noisy.  He settles for picking up one of Arthur’s vambraces and absently running the bottom edge of his tunic over it. From the looks of the armor – shining even in the stained-glass filtered moonlight - it was placed here (likely by himself) just after a good cleaning. Still, it’s an excuse for Merlin to stay in Arthur’s quarters.

He stays there, ‘polishing’ mindlessly, occasionally swapping for some of the smaller armor pieces that he can maneuver noiselessly, but mostly watching Arthur sleep until the darkness of the room brightens a fraction and the quality of light changes from moon-lit to pre-dawn.   He carefully re-stacks the armor and then sneaks out of the room to head down to the kitchens.

The familiar faces are remarkable only for how they look past him when he expects them to question his presence there.  The head cook merely grumbles at him when he loads up a tray with a carefully bobbled loaf of her just-from-the-oven bread, and his chiding, “For the Prince,” silences any comment she might make as he pilfers sausages right from the pan.  He adds a wedge of sharp orange cheese and a variety of fruits from cold storage, a pitcher of watered wine and a bowl of freshly churned butter (that does earn him a hand-slap, but he ducks the tray away from her grabbing hand and manages to get away with his spoils).

Arthur is probably going to question why the elaborate breakfast, but Merlin doesn’t care. If he’s especially lucky Arthur will forget about being awakened in small hours by a weeping Merlin; if he’s not so lucky, breakfast could serve as an adequate bribe.

The sun is well and truly up by the time he gets back to Arthur’s room, so Merlin feels no compunction about waking Arthur up.  He draws the curtains back fully and then, when a grumbling Arthur drags his covers over his head, draws those down as well. “Rise and shine,” he sings out, which earns him more grumbling.

“C’mon, I’ve got your breakfast.” He steps aside from Arthur’s desk where he set the tray.

Arthur perks up a bit when he sees it. “That looks good.”

Merlin just smiles and pulls out Arthur’s chair.

While Arthur settles down to his meal, Merlin gets to work setting out clothes.  He has no idea what the day is, and no clue of Arthur’s schedule, but it’s a fair guess that he’ll be heading to the practice field at some point, and joining his father in the council chambers as well.

That thought gives Merlin pause. Uther is still alive. 

He needs to figure out where he is in his own history, and formulate a plan to fix things.   If Arthur has the scars from the Questing Beast then Nimueh is dead, but he has no idea if Morgause has made her presence known in Camelot yet.  He needs to talk to Gaius.

He’s loath to leave Arthur’s side though.  

Even though they don’t share quite the same easy camaraderie and friendship that Merlin shared with Arthur as King, he knows that the roots of that relationship were already firmly established early on.  He’s missed this, desperately. Falling back into routine is almost terrifyingly easy.  What does it say about him, or what his life had become, that he can pick back up in his old life, just like he never left it?

“So,” Arthur says as he slathers a thick heel of bread with the butter. “Is this an apology for so rudely awakening me in the middle of the night?”

Merlin feels his cheeks flush with heat.

“What was it again? Nightmares?” Despite the teasing lilt in Arthur’s voice, there’s concern in his eyes. “What about?”

“Um, nothing…”

“Nothing, huh?” Merlin recognizes Arthur’s ‘trying too hard to look uninterested’ expression.  “I thought maybe you were troubled about Morgana.”

“Morgana?” Merlin asks, alarmed. “What about her?”  Could this already be after Morgana’s turn to dark magic? Is she already allied with Morgause?

“I heard Gaius mention that she was having trouble sleeping again.” Arthur frowns. “Probably everything that happened with Gwen.” The frown deepens before flattening to a carefully neutral expression.

“Gwen?” He repeats, not actually _playing_ dumb, hoping he can goad Arthur into being more specific.

Arthur, true to form, rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Have you entirely forgotten the pair of them getting kidnapped by bandits and then my rather daring rescue of Gwen from Hengest’s fortress just a week ago?”

“Your rescue?” Merlin blurts out, “what about Lancelot?” It’s a stupid thing to say, he realizes it the moment the name leaves his lips and Arthur’s face darkens, but he’s too excited about being given a major clue to _when_ in time he’s come back to. 

“And me,” he hurries to add. “I helped you distract those guards.”

That mollifies Arthur somewhat.  “Yes, you were so helpful when I threw you in the room with them.” His sneer isn’t all that sincere. “Honestly, I’m impressed you stayed on your feet and didn’t just fall to the floor in terror.”

“Hey,” Merlin protests, because he remembers being rather witty during that particular instance.

“So if it’s not Morgana,” Arthur plucks up a berry and tosses it at Merlin, “what were the nightmares about?”

Huffing indignantly, Merlin leans over to pick up the errant fruit and is glad he doesn’t have to look at Arthur when he answers, “Nothing, really.  You know, just… bad dreams.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.” Arthur’s voice is surprisingly gentle.

Which is exactly what Merlin doesn’t need.   He’s got a grip on his emotions now, but it’s a precarious, fingertip hold. Being reminded isn’t helping any.   He deflects the best way he knows how. “Well if you want to know,” he straightens and turns to Arthur wearing what he knows is an insouciant expression, “I dreamt that you got in a fight and all of your armor got ruined and I had to spend hours and hours getting it cleaned up again.”

Arthur obviously recognizes what Merlin is doing, but he doesn’t challenge it any further.  He snorts out a laugh, though and shakes his head. “No wonder you wanted to come check that it was alright.” 

They don’t speak much more as Arthur finishes his meal and Merlin helps him dress and don his armor. Merlin was right that Arthur’s heading down to practice with the Knights. 

Before Arthur leaves he stops in the doorway and fixes Merlin with an odd smile. “I’ll try not to get it too dirty,” he says, and then seems a little embarrassed by it and hurries out.

Alone, Merlin can finally loose the tight rein he has on his emotions.  As he helps himself to the rest of Arthur’s breakfast (and he doesn’t fail to notice that Arthur left a generous amount behind – he must’ve known that Merlin hadn’t had the chance to eat yet) and finishes straightening Arthur’s room, he lets the tears fall freely.

There’s a knock at the door and as Merlin hurries to swipes hands down his cheeks, he hears the door creak open.

“Arthu…” It’s Gauis. He trails off when he spots Merlin. “Merlin, _there_ you are. You weren’t in your room this morning. I was worried.”

“I’m sorry, Gaius.” And he is.  There was a part of him torn about returning to his room to the familiarity of being woken by Gaius and sharing a simple breakfast and conversation before setting about his day.  But the part of him that _needs_ to be around Arthur won out. He’s honestly surprised he isn’t dogging Arthur’s heels this very moment, but he needs a bit of space (just a bit) so he can regain his equilibrium.  “I couldn’t sleep so I got an early start.”

“Merlin?” Gaius steps into the room, moving close to Merlin. He narrows his eyes as he takes in what must be reddened eyes and the remnants of tear-tracks Merlin missed in his haste at wiping them away. “Is everything alright, my boy?”

“It’s fine, Gaius. Truly.” He wants to tell Gaius the truth.  All of it. But he knows that there’s just too much unsurity in this path he’s set for himself. Too much risk. It’s something he has to do alone.  “I just had a very unsettling dream.  One of those where it takes reality a bit of time to reset.”

“Are you sure?”

Merlin nods. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Nothing prophetic, was it?” Gaius asks in a hush.

Merlin shakes his head rapidly. “No, nothing like that.  More like some of the events of the past that don’t quite want to stay where they belong.”

Gaius looks doubtful, but he just nods. “Alright.  But you’ll let me know if there’s something going on, won’t you?”

“Of course.” He nods dutifully. “But speaking of prophetic dreams, how is Morgana?”

Gaius sighs heavily. “Growing despondent, I fear.  I thought that after her time with the Druids she was more settled with herself.  But her nightmares are getting worse and she’s become very closed off, even to me.”

Merlin knows what he’s going to suggest isn’t going to be well met, but he also _knows_ that this is what must be done. “Gaius, I’m going to talk to her—“

“Merlin, no, we’ve discussed this. You can’t risk—“

Holding up a forestalling hand, Merlin shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Gaius. I don’t want to defy you, but you must believe that my intentions are good. I know what I’m risking and I also know it’s _worth_ that risk.” He softens his tone as Gaius is looking a bit dumbstruck at Merlin’s vehemence. “Please, Gaius.  I just know that this is what I need to do. If Morgana doesn’t have anyone to talk to about her magic, it’s just going to fester inside of her and her resentment will grow and it will darken her mind and change her into something ugly and twisted.  I can’t let that happen.”

Gaius steps back, wide-eyed. “How can you know that?”

Damn. Merlin’s let too much slip.

“The Great Dragon!” he blurts.  He can’t remember if he and Gaius have acknowledged the existence of Kilgharrah with each other yet, but he has to chance it.

“The Great Dragon told you this?”

Merlin shrugs.  He hates to lie to Gaius. “Not directly, but it was implied.” Which is actually close to the truth.  Kilgharrah had actually told Merlin that he should let ‘the witch’ die… but that _was_ because he knew what her future held.   “And it worries me, Gaius. So I’ve made up my mind.  You must trust me.”

If the heavy sigh he lets out is any indication, Gaius isn’t happy. But he must recognize the resolve on Merlin’s face because all he says is, “Very well, Merlin. But please be extremely careful.  We don’t want Morgana to get spooked and run to Uther.”

“I’ll be very careful, Gaius. Don’t worry.”

Gaius doesn’t look reassured, but he just nods. “I’m here to help if you need me, Merlin. Remember that.”

“I know, Gaius.”

And because he can, Merlin gives into impulse and gives Gaius a hug.  He’s met with hesitation at first – though not out of any wish of Gaius to avoid the gesture, just probably a bit of confusion on Gaius’ part where this is coming from – but is caught up in a firm embrace soon enough.  When he pulls away, it’s with an embarrassed little cough.  Gaius seems to understand though, and he just pats Merlin on the shoulder and nods.

Merlin leaves Gaius to his rounds – potions to deliver and patients to visit - and decides to seek out Morgana right away.  Arthur has at least another hour down on the training grounds and it’s early enough that Morgana will likely still be in her room.

He knocks softly at her door. “It’s Merlin,” he announces when he hears her voice asking who it is. “Can I come in?”

There’s a long few moments with no response, though Merlin can hear shuffling and noises through the door.   Finally it opens just a few inches and Morgana peers out at him. “What is it, Merlin?”  She looks oddly disheveled, and is clearly still in her night dress.

“Are you alright? Did I wake you?”

Morgana frowns and then looks down at herself. “Oh. No,” she says with a self-deprecating little laugh. “I’ve been awake.” She sighs heavily. “I just had a difficult night.”

“Um, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.” He casts furtive glances in each direction of the hall and lowers his voice further as he whispers, “About what we talked about when you went to meet with the Druids.”

Her eyes go wide. “Merlin, did something—“

“No!” he hurriedly interrupts, “it’s nothing bad. I just need to talk to you about that. Please, it’s important.”

She opens the door and steps aside, inviting him in.

“Will Gwen be in soon?” he needs privacy for this conversation, and though he thinks it would be better for all of them if Gwen learned the truth as well, this isn’t the time to get her involved. 

Morgana shakes her head. “No, she’s already been with breakfast. I told her I wanted to try to get some more sleep, so she won’t be back for a few hours.”

Merlin frowns. “So I _did_ interrupt you trying to sleep.”

“No, I really wasn’t sleeping. Honestly.” She settles on the edge of bed and pats it.

It’s wildly inappropriate for Merlin to join her there, but he’s quite taken with this Morgana.  This innocent, sweet and troubled girl is so very different from the evil and corrupted woman who destroyed his life. As he settles next to her – not _too_ close, though – he can’t reconcile the two.

“Morgana,” he begins, “I need to tell you something and I’m going to ask you to not be angry with me.” When she frowns, clearly puzzled, he amends, “Well, you can be angry because I lied to you, and I wouldn’t blame you for that. But I don’t want you to _stay_ angry.”

She looks even more confused. “You lied to me? When? About what?”

Merlin takes a steeling breath. “When you told me you thought you had magic and I…  I told you to go to the Druids for help, because I didn’t know how to help you.”

“But that was a good thing, Merlin,” she tries to reassure him. “I learned the truth about myself. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t helped me to find them.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “but I should’ve been honest with you then.  I kept something from you, Morgana, because I was afraid.  You must understand that I was so very afraid.”

He takes a deep breath. 

Morgana must sense how difficult this is for him because she reaches out and takes one of his hands in hers.  Merlin looks down at her delicate fingers curled around his – tight and comforting – and he lets himself say it. “I have magic.”

When Morgana doesn’t say anything, he repeats. “I have magic, Morgana.  And I didn’t tell you before even though I should have.”

She’s still silent and Merlin doesn’t know what else to do. Does she not believe him? (Arthur hadn’t, at first, and he has to force that memory away). “Look, here.” He casts his gaze around the room, settles on a vase of wilting flowers – the flowers he remembers giving to her, actually - atop the dresser and speaks a word, “Geblówan.”  He hears Morgana’s sharp inhale as the blooms lift and brighten to full freshness, but other than that she’s still silent.

“Morgana, _please_ say something.”

For a moment her hands tighten around his and he almost lets out a sigh of relief, but then they’re yanked roughly away and Morgana surges to her feet.   Her face is anguished when she turns to look at him and she hisses, “You liar. You filthy liar."

Merlin shrinks back and tries to reply, but before he can even open his mouth, she goes on.

“I trusted you and you let me think there was something so wrong with me,” she wrings her hands tight, over and over in a twisting sort of motion, “and the whole time you knew you could’ve made it so much easier on me.  I thought I was losing my mind, Merlin! I thought I was going crazy and that I was becoming something wrong and evil and I just needed a friend!”

He tries again. “Morgana, please, you must understand—“

“Oh I understand, Merlin. You let me go through the most terrifying experience of my life alone when you could have helped. You could have made it bearable. All I wanted was to know I wasn’t alone and you… you…” she breaks off with an awful, mournful sound.

Merlin doesn’t know what she’s thinking when she stalks across the room, but he knows he can’t let her leave. He rushes to put himself between her and the door. “I do understand, Morgana,” he spits out urgently, “I understand exactly what it’s like.” He holds up his hands, guarding, when she lurches toward him.  She stops though, just at arm’s length, and he knows it’s because she’s afraid to get too close. “I went through it myself, Morgana. I was _born_ with magic and all my life I’ve had to hide who I really am. I’ve been practically alone in a city that would see me hanged or burned or beheaded for who I am.”

He takes a step closer, arms held wide and unthreatening.  She doesn’t retreat and he hopes that’s a good sign. “I didn’t tell you about me because I was too scared and I’m sorry for that.  I’m sorry I let you go through that by yourself, but I’m here _now_ because I realized what a mistake that was.”

Morgana looks up at him, finally. Her eyes are wide and glistening, lashes in damp spikes. “Does Arthur know?”

Merlin shakes his head, sadly. “No,” he chokes on the word.  More than anything he wants Arthur to know. “Only Gaius.”

“Gaius?” she frowns. “But I went to him for help. Why didn’t he… why couldn’t he tell me the truth?”

“That’s my fault, Morgana.  Please don’t blame Gaius. He was only protecting me.  He didn’t want me to tell you the truth because he’s afraid for me.  If Uther were to find out…” he trails off, but the words are ominous even unsaid.

“I wouldn’t tell him, Merlin.  You must believe me that I’m as frightened of that as you must be.”

He nods. “I know. I do.” Merlin lets his hands drop to his sides and he backs up enough to lean against the wall, chin falling to his chest.

“Can you forgive me?” he asks, looking up at Morgana from beneath hooded brows.

Morgana bites at her lower lip. She looks contemplative. “I can’t just forget this. I can’t just lie and say I’m not still hurt, Merlin.”

Merlin fidgets in the silence that she lets settle over them.  He fights the urge to say anything – Morgana needs to come to forgiveness on her own.

Finally she heaves a shoulder-hefting sigh. “But I understand why you did what you did, Merlin.  I can’t blame you for being scared.” She shakes her head, eyes going wide. It’s not quite sadness. Maybe a touch of awe?  “I don’t know how you’ve lived in Camelot so long and risked so much without being constantly terrified of getting caught. I think that if I were in your place, I’d have done the same.”

She takes another of those whole-body deep breaths, nods and walks over to him. Merlin keeps absolutely still, unsure what she’s…

Oh, she’s hugging him.

“I do forgive you, Merlin.” She says into his neck. “And I want you to forgive me too, for saying such terrible things to you.”

He tentatively returns the embrace, patting softly at the middle of her back (and careful not to touch anywhere else). “Thank you, Morgana.  And I do. Forgive you that is.”

Despite how nice the hug is, he’s relieved when she finally pulls back and he tries not to let that show on his face.  

“So what do we do now?” Morgana asks. She returns to her bed, sitting down and tucking her legs beneath her. 

“Now, I help you.” He tells her, even though he knows it’s not going to be that simple.  Despite his absolute surety that coming back to this time – to a time when he can save Morgana (and so many others as a result) – was the right choice he hadn’t really had much time to do a lot of planning what he’d do when (and if) he got there.  “I’ll… I’ll train you.”  Once the idea springs to mind, he realizes it’s actually a good one. He runs with it. “We need to find a way to meet up regularly.  I’ve actually got a spell book and I could help you learn to control your magic.”

Her face lights up. “You can do that?”

Merlin nods. “Oh yeah.  I had to learn control at a pretty early age.  Caused quite a bit of trouble for my Mum until I did.”

Morgana smiles. “I can just imagine.” She idly picks at a thread in the hem of her gown. “Let’s see what we can figure out. I don’t think we should meet here in my rooms,” she lets out a very unladylike snort.  “Too many prying eyes.  Gwen would start to wonder, at least.” She makes a thoughtful, humming sound.

Another idea comes to Merlin then. One that fits in perfectly with his plans.  “I think I’ve got a place. I need to make sure it’s uh, unoccupied, but I’ll let you know as soon as I can.  Oh,” he adds, “we’d probably have to meet there at night though.” He feigns a dramatic sigh. “I don’t think I could find time enough in the day to get away from both Arthur and Gaius.”

Morgana clucks sympathetically and says, “Well it’s not like I get a lot of sleep as it is, either.” She laughs and it’s so lighthearted and absent of that bitterness he’s so long associated with Morgana that Merlin feels the tentative hope in his chest burgeon into something stronger and less fragile.

“Oh,” Merlin adds, “and we need to make sure Arthur doesn’t find out.”

“Of course, Merlin.  I know Arthur wouldn’t want either of us to get caught, but he’d be duty-bound to report this to Uther.”

“Well yes, there is that.” Merlin scrubs at the back of his neck, feeling his ears heat. “I also meant that he can’t know we’re spending this much time together.”

“Why ever not?” Morgana sounds indignant. Merlin would be flattered, except it’s that same proprietary tone that he’s heard her use regarding anything that Arthur has that she’s not allowed.

“Erm, well.  When this all started, he sort of caught me bringing you flowers.” He nods to the side table where they’re freshly blooming once again. “Anyway, he got it into his head that I must fancy you and he gave me this whole speech about how I need to not look above my station.” He puts a bit of ‘Arthur inflection’ on the latter phrase.

Morgana is grinning delightedly. “Oh don’t worry, Merlin. I’ll make sure Arthur doesn’t find out.  He’s unbearable when he’s jealous over anything anyway.”

Jealous? Merlin wants to ask what she means, and then he remembers that when he first arrived in Camelot (which is only a couple short years ago for his body, but over two decades ago for his mind and memories) there was a continually circulating rumor that Arthur had a particular fondness for Morgana.  The thought makes Merlin shudder.

They’re half-siblings, though of course neither of them knows that.  And that was another one of the secrets that drove the wedge further between Morgana and Uther.  Merlin adds that to the list of things he needs to resolve.  Somehow, he needs to make Uther acknowledge Morgana.

Right. He’ll just put that on the list beneath ‘get Uther to relax his stance on magic’.

“I’d better be going.  Arthur’s going to be done on the practice field soon, and I suspect Gwen will be around sooner than later to check on you.” He grins.  “I’ll get word to you when I know if the meeting place I’m thinking of will work.”

“Thank you, Merlin.” She leans back onto an elbow. “You know,” she calls out as he’s halfway out the door, “I think I can actually sleep now.”

Merlin doesn’t reply, but the smile it brings stays on his face even when he gets back to Arthur’s rooms and gets back to his regular chores.  

He uses the time spent gathering dirty clothes, putting away anything passably clean, straightening Arthur’s bed and washing down the floor to consider his next moves. 

It had seemed so easy when the stranger had first suggested the possibility to Merlin. ‘Go back in time. Fix the things that went wrong’.   He wishes he’d spent more time considering what that would entail.   Stopping Morgana is only part of it.  And while he’s been successful in his first attempt, so far, there’s still nothing to assure him that Uther’s hatred of all things magic won’t still twist her and shape her into the hateful being she has the potential to become.

Merlin needs to find a way to do the most impossible thing of all: change Uther’s mind about magic.

The very thought makes him laugh aloud, and if it’s a somewhat desperate, maniacal sound at least there’s no one around to hear it.

“Something funny, Merlin?”

Of course Arthur would walk in right then. Of course.

“No, Sire.”

“Come now, Merlin. Must’ve been something amusing.” Merlin’s never really known how Arthur does that with his voice: makes even the most innocuous, mundane statements sound like the deadliest of threats.

“Just remembering a funny story Gwaine told about,” he fishes around for a subject and then holds up the candle he’s just set in a candelabra to replace one melted down to a stub, “a candlestick.”

At Arthur’s puzzled frown, Merlin realizes the slip.

“Who?”

“Uh, Sir…” he scrambles for a name that sounds similar. “Gavin… Sir Gavin.” Merlin’s fairly certain there’s a Sir Gavin in the Knight’s roster at the moment.

“Gavin, really?” Arthur’s still frowning. “Didn’t think he had the sense of humor God gave a goat.” He shrugs, but then looks back at Merlin shrewdly. “When were you spending enough time with Sir Gavin to hear such a tale?” The expression grows from speculative to knowing. “Unless you’ve been spending time in the tavern?”

Someday, Merlin will disabuse Arthur of the notion that he spends all of his (nonexistent) free time in the tavern!

“No, of course not,” Merlin protests. “It was out on the practice fields the other day.”

Arthur’s not buying that.  His, “Of course it was,” is belied by a really over-the-top eye-roll.  “C’mon,” he waves Merlin over, “I need to dress for my Father’s council session.”

His armor, Merlin is pleased to see, is actually quite clean for his having spent the last couple of hours in the yard, likely getting bashed about.   Unbuckling the hauberk, Merlin suddenly remembers their earlier conversation. 

Did Arthur take it easy with his armor for Merlin’s sake?

Judging from the way that Arthur is ever-so-slightly posturing (sometimes he’s smug – rightfully so – after trouncing his Knights over and over, but it’s never quite so showy) Merlin realizes that _yes_ ; he did make sure his armor came back in a better-than-average state.  And since Arthur never, _ever_ , takes it easy on his men, that means he must’ve fought extra hard just to keep the sword blows from landing and the maces from connecting to make their scuffs and scratches.

Merlin knows there’s only one way he can handle this (that won’t result in yet another emotional breakdown – he going to have to ask Gaius for some kind of potion if this keeps up!) and that is to deflect.  “Oh, now, what’s this?” He chastises, rubbing his fingers across a small scrape on the pauldron before moving to the buckles on the other side. “I thought you were going to take it easy on the armor?”

As expected, Arthur bristles. “What? Merlin you…” he starts to turn but Merlin lifts the armor piece over his head at that exact moment.  Arthur sputters a moment then declares, “I’ll have you know that I vanquished all of my Knights unmercifully.”

Once Merlin has the armor off, Arthur steps back and puts his hands on his hips. “And really, _Mer_ lin,” he drawls – it’s a dangerous tone, this one. It means Merlin’s bordering on getting knocked in the head by flying crockery – “if you think _my_ armor is in bad shape, perhaps you need something to compare it to.” He smiles, viciously. “I could have you down in the armory, cleaning and polishing the armor of _all_ the Knights if you’d like?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, Sire. This is just fine.” He tries for contrite, but fails miserably.  Let Arthur read whatever he wants into the grin that Merlin can’t contain. “In fact, thank you for doing such a tremendous job at keeping it so pristine.” He’s starting to get a little giddy. “Your consideration is most humbling.”

Arthur’s haughty look falters. He clearly doesn’t know what to make of Merlin’s odd mood. Luckily Arthur has a default when it comes to things getting a bit too heavy or serious between them. 

As if on cue, a hand connects with the back of Merlin’s head.  For a cuff, it was a gentle one.  “Stop grinning like an idiot, Merlin, and fetch my blue shirt.”

 

~~~~~~

A few nights later, after he’s gotten used to his old routine once again, Merlin slips out of his room, and out of Gaius’s chamber.

He waits until the guard change – when the men on each duty shift are too busy exchanging idle gossip to notice him slip past - before sneaking down past the dungeons to the long-forgotten tunnel that leads to the cavern beneath Camelot.   Stepping out onto the ledge, he sees that Kilgharrah is lying on the outcropping of rock and the dragon’s head lifts as he sees Merlin come in.

“Young warlock, what is it that I can do for –“ he breaks off suddenly and pushes off the rock, wings flapping frantically. “Merlin!” Kilgharrah shouts. “What have you done?”

Startled, Merlin stumbles back a few steps. “What do you mean?”

“There’s something very wrong with you, Merlin.” He lifts higher into the air, and Merlin is startled to realize that Kilgharrah is deliberately putting distance between them. “You’re out of time. You cannot be here!” He gains more altitude and starts to turn away, no longer hovering but actively flying away. “You’ve done something unspeakable,” he hisses, a gout of flame exhaling on the heel of the words. “I will not speak to you any longer.”

Merlin reacts without thinking. “O drakon,” he shouts after Kilgharrah, “nun de ge dei s'eikein kai emois!”

The dragon stops in the air sharply, jerking back as if he’s reached the end of his tether. He turns and swoops back down, diving like a hunting hawk.  It’s quite aggressive looking.

It’s then that Merlin realizes that he _shouldn’t_ be able to command Kilgharrah. Not _yet_.  He peers at the dragon as he alights on the rock once again, a spell waiting on his tongue just in case.

Kilgharrah looks unnerved but Merlin is unsure if it’s actually the command or possibly that Merlin dared _try_ to command him.

To his utter surprise, Kilgharrah bows his head.

“How… how is that possible?” Merlin has to ask.  “My fa…Balinor still lives… I shouldn’t…” Unless, somehow, his father is already dead? 

“I do not know, young Warlock,” Kilgharrah answers and he sounds as unsettled as Merlin’s ever heard him. “It should not be.  By all rights, you are not yet a Dragonlord.  And yet I am compelled to obey you.”

“So Balinor still lives?”

“Yes, he lives.”

Merlin releases a profoundly relieved sigh. “Oh thank goodness.  I can save him still.”

The dragon cants his massive head to the side. “Is _that_ why you’re here, young warlock?  Why you’re so far out of your own time?”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks again.  He doesn’t understand how Kilgharrah can recognize that about him.

“You know very well what I mean, Merlin.” Kilgharrah does peevish almost as well as Gaius. “Your body is still young, yes, but your soul is old…  How did this happen?”

“A spell,” Merlin admits. “I came back to set things right.”

Kilgharrah shakes his head. “Merlin, you know very well that your destiny is written and cannot be changed.”

“You’re wrong this time, old friend.  I _will_ change things.  I will ensure the future of Albion comes just as it is meant too, but I will not lose my friends and the people I love just for the sake of destiny.” He stands up taller and looks Kilgharrah in the eye. “I will see it happen right this time.”

“Oh, Merlin.” Kilgharrah actually sounds distraught. “If you’ve lived it once already then you should know that no matter how hard you try, things will come to pass as they are meant to.”

“You’re wrong,” Merlin shakes his head. “I _can_ change things. I am much more powerful than the young warlock you knew.  And I have knowledge of what is to come and how to fix it.”

“Merlin—“

“No,” Merlin repeats the headshake, firmer this time. “I respect your words, Kilgharrah, but I will not be swayed from this path.  I didn’t even come down here to talk to you about this,” he admits.

“Then what are you here for, if not to tell me of your foolishness?”

There have been times that Merlin was tempted to _command_ Kilgharrah to stop being quite so sarcastic.  This is definitely one of them.

“To set you free, old friend.”

Kilgharrah rears up on his haunches, wings pinioning as if to keep his balance.  The wind of it buffets Merlin’s face, but Kilgharrah isn’t going anywhere. “To free me?  I thought your words a mere token to convince me to help you defeat Sigan.” 

Merlin doesn’t let himself feel any affront at that. “I made you a promise, and I’m going to honor it.” He smiles grimly. “Just a bit earlier than planned.    But before I do, I must tell you that I _know_ what you plan to do when free.”  Kilgharrah’s expressions are sometimes hard to read, but feigned innocence is surprisingly easy to interpret on draconian features. “You want revenge on Uther, I understand that. But I cannot let you harm innocent people.”

Kilgharrah twitches his tail in disgust. “So you’ll command me to leave Camelot, then?”

“No. I won’t command you.  I will only ask you, as my friend.”

The scoff he gets in response is no surprise. “You expect me to just _forget_ that Uther killed off all of my kind and has had me imprisoned here for twenty years?  Merlin, I do not know how our friendship changed in your time, but right now you ask too much.”

“What if I tell you you’re not the last?  Not the last dragon?”

 “That’s impossible!”

“No, it’s not.” Merlin shakes his head. “There’s an egg.”

Kilgharrah’s head darts out close to Merlin, stretching his long, sinuous neck as far as he can. “Where?” He implores. “Where is this egg?”

“It’s safe, I promise you.  And I will go and get it if you give me your word that when I free you, you’ll leave Camelot and its people alone.”

Kilgharrah draws his head back and studies Merlin in silence.  Finally he dips his head again. “I will do as you ask, young warlock.  You have my word on that.”

Merlin grins. “Thank you, Kilgharrah.  I know where the egg is, and I promise it is safe for now.  There are pieces to a key that I will need to retrieve and assemble, but I will do so as soon as I can.  And once I have it, I will summon you.”

“You’ve seen this other dragon, haven’t you? In the future you remember.”

“Yes,” Merlin nods. “In my future I rescued the egg and brought it to you.  You were with me when I called her from the shell.”

A happy sound rumbles in Kilgharrah’s throat. “That is good to hear, young warlock.” Merlin doesn’t know if Dragon’s can smile but he doesn’t know what else to call the way Kilgharrah’s mouth curls up at the edges. “Now, you spoke of granting me my freedom.  Just how do you hope to accomplish this task?”

Merlin makes his way down the carved stone steps that take him to the small span of stone that connect the ledge to the dragon’s perch. “With magic, of course.”

“Merlin, there is very little magic that can break these bindings. Perhaps if you had the blade I forged—“

“Don’t need it,” Merlin says as he finishes the climb to where the massive chain is bolted to the rock.

“Oh really?” 

Though he can’t see Kilgharrah’s face from where he’s at, Merlin is surprised there isn’t literal disdain dripping from the dragon’s mouth and on top of his head.  He’s going to take far too much pleasure in proving the smug creature wrong.

He extends a hand toward the bolt and speaks in a guttural tone. “Ic bebeode þisne sweord þæt hé forcierfe þá bende þæra dracan. Un clýse!”  He can feel the resistance of old, strong magic. He repeats the words, louder and with a deeper inflection, forcing his own magic to override the other.  For a long moment the magics are at an impasse; then Merlin holds out his other hand and says it again. “Ic bebeode þisne sweord þæt hé forcierfe þá bende þæra dracan. Un clýse!” 

The chain snaps with a loud, echoing clang.

Kilgharrah leaps from the rock with yet another rush of flapping wings; Merlin is nearly blown over by the downdraft. “Your magic is stronger than I realized, young warlock.” He calls down, even as he lofts towards the gap in the stone that means his freedom.  “ _Perhaps_ you _can_ affect the change you desire after all.”

“Don’t forget your promise, Kilgharrah!” Merlin shouts up at the retreating dragon.

“I won’t, Merlin. I swear it to you.”

Merlin watches him fly away until he’s a dark shape obscured by overhanging rock.  He’s taking quite a bit on faith – freeing Kilgharrah early – but he also knows now that should Kilgharrah betray him and attack Camelot, he still has the power to stop it.

He looks around before he leaves. The cavern will be a good place to bring Morgana to help her learn to control her magic.  He knows how good she is at sneaking around the castle at night, and they can be as loud as they want (small explosions, shattered furniture and lots of smoke are all things Merlin recalls from trying to learn control in his youth – it’s a wonder he and his Mother weren’t shunned from Ealdor entirely) if memory of some of the ‘louder’ conversations he’s had with Kilgharrah are any indication of the sound-carrying qualities of the space. 

Leaving the dungeon is easy – a quickly whispered, “Swefe nu.” sees both guards nod off at the table – dice still tumbling to a halt between them.   He makes it back to his quarters with no difficulty. 

~~~~~

It seems all too soon Gaius is calling – loudly – through the door to wake him. “Come along, Merlin. We’ve got work to get to.”

Merlin can tell that Gaius still isn’t entirely happy with him (he suspects it’s the fact that he defied Gaius’ decision about Morgana, though it’s entirely possible there’s something else he doesn’t remember).  He rushes Merlin through a very dull breakfast – no fruit or slab of sharp cheese to go with his porridge –and then makes Merlin carry all of his supplies when they head out to the Lower town.

It’s a Thursday, which means they’re on their way to collect pots. Merlin used to loathe Thursday mornings spent as a pack mule.  He’s reveling in this one.

As they go about their business, and Merlin gets more and more laden down by various small casks and crocks (some empty, some full of herbs or other ingredients Gaius uses in his potion making), nothing strikes Merlin as odd or particularly memorable about the day.

Until - as he’s chattering aimlessly at Gaius, trying to improve his mood – a hand grabs his arm and stops him short.  He looks over as a raspy voice says, “Please.”

It’s Jonas.  Tail-having, troll-worshiping, tried-to-kill-him, dastardly Jonas.  Which means that the troll masquerading as Lady Catrina is just behind.  Merlin barely refrains from cursing.  He’d forgotten about this whole debacle.  Well, not entirely forgotten it (Uther married to a troll wasn’t something he was likely to ever forget! Even after Uther forbid anyone discussing it on pain of disappearing to the dungeons, Merlin and Gaius had been known to chuckle about it quietly) but hadn’t realized it was still yet to happen.  Apparently his memories of these years aren’t as linear as he’d thought.

He should put a stop to this, right this very instant.   And he’s about to open his mouth and denounce Jonas and his disgusting mistress for what they really are, when a thought strikes him.

It’s particularly devious thought.  

He ponders it when Jonas hands over the Royal Seal of the house of Tregar to Gaius.

If he _lets_ this happen – lets Uther get caught up in the troll’s magic as she nearly usurps the throne – Uther will be vulnerable, emotionally.  Merlin’s already been pondering the idea of somehow using Uther’s wife as a tool to change his ways of thinking (He knows how much she affects Uther – Morgana’s use of the mandrake showed that very clearly).   So if this plays out as it did, Uther could be quite receptive to a visit from Ygraine.  

Plus, he knows how to stop all of this before it goes too far. And how to do it without getting caught.

An elbow to the ribs makes Merlin realize that he’s been staring off into space as the ‘Lady Catrina’ is revealed, and Gaius is bowing respectfully.  Merlin leans forward in a jerky bow of his own.  He knows his disrespect will likely be taken for clumsiness.

Before he even realizes he’s made up his mind, they’re escorting the Lady and her manservant to the castle for an audience with Uther. 

Merlin keeps a firm hold on his reactions during Catrina’s (very well performed, he’s forced to admit) dramatics in the throne room.  And when he and Gaius leave later, he manages to bite his tongue before revealing anything.  Though when Arthur asks him to see Catrina and Jonas to the guest chamber, Merlin almost balks.

He knows he’s bordering on impolite when he shows the pair to the room – opening the door and gesturing inside with a quick thrust of his arm - and he tries to keep the sneer off his face as he says, “Here’s your room. Probably better than you’re used to, I’ll bet.” 

That earns him a scowl from Jonas, but despite his abrupt words, Catrina obviously wants to play her role. “Well, considering we spent last night in a cave, it is. Thank you.  I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name?”  He remembers being so very impressed the first time around – a high born treating a servant with such politesse.   All that he sees now is a clumsy attempt by the troll to ingratiate herself with everyone in the castle.

“It’s,” he pulls the first name he can think of out of the air, “Albert.”

“Well, Albert. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he gives a quick nod. “I’ll be going then.” He leaves without another word.   He knows she won’t tattle on him to Uther, not just yet.  And even if she does, let Uther try to find and punish a servant called Albert.

Armed with the memory of how this all unfolded, Merlin decides that he’s just going to do his best to avoid interacting with Catrina or Jonas as much as possible.  Even though it hadn’t really caused him _too_ much trouble the last time – he’s not too keen on being accused of thievery and having to dodge castle guards.   Anything he can do to avoid hiding in a barrel of oats; he ended up with them in his clothes and hair and was finding grains everywhere for weeks after.

When he returns to Gaius later and finds him concocting a potion, he doesn’t say anything, just watches.  He’s always enjoyed watching Gaius work. One of his many regrets is that he didn’t learn more of the healer’s art from Gaius.   Predictably, Gaius’ curiosity gets the better of him, and while he’s pouring a vial into a small bottle, he says, “And how did you find the Lady Catrina?”

Merlin just shrugs. “Not too keen on her manservant,” he admits. “Something about him seems a bit off.”

“Oh?”  Gaius finishes transferring the liquid, stoppers up the bottle and then looks up at Merlin in interest. “Really? How so?”

Again, Merlin just kind of hefts his shoulders loosely. “Dunno.  Just got the sense that there’s something not quite right about either of them.”

“Hmmm,” is all Gaius replies and then hands over the bottle. “Deliver this to the Lady Catrina, will you?”

“Of course,” Merlin agrees, though he plans to do no such thing.  He already knows how that will play out. Instead he uses the time to visit Morgana.  It’s been several days since their chat and he hasn’t been able to get back to her yet about finding a meeting place.

When he knocks on Morgana’s door it’s Gwen who answers. “Oh, Merlin, hello.”

“Hi, Gwen.” She’s got her hair up like she used to wear it – not like the long tresses that became her style when she was Queen – and it makes her look younger somehow (well, she _is_ younger, Merlin mentally scoffs at himself).  He holds out the medicine bottle. “I’ve got something from Gaius for Morgana.”

When Gwen reaches out for it, Merlin pulls his hand back. “Sorry, Gaius asked me to deliver it personally. It’s different from her usual tonic and he wants to make sure I explain it properly.”

“Oh, I see.” Gwen smiles. “That’s very kind of you. Come in.” She opens the door further, letting him in.

Morgana’s already abed, sitting up against the headboard, but the duvet is pulled up to her waist.  She smiles when she sees Merlin.

He holds up the bottle again and gives it a little shake. “Another sleeping draught from Gaius,” he says and gives a little wink when she starts to frown.

“Oh, right. That’s wonderful, thank you, Merlin.” She looks past Merlin. “Gwen, you don’t have to stay.  Hopefully if Gaius’ tonic does its work, I’ll be asleep shortly.”

“Are you sure, M’lady?” Gwen asks, looking between Merlin and Morgana.  She’s not quite frowning, but Merlin can sense that she’s hesitant to leave.  Whether it’s not wanting to leave Morgana, or not wanting to leave Merlin in the room alone, he can’t tell.

Morgana smiles, wide and kind. “Of course, Gwen, but thank you for being so sweet, but I’m fine.”

So, Gwen’s concern is for Morgana, then.  What’s he missing?

“Alright, M’lady. I’ll be back in the morning, then. Good night.” She looks over to Merlin, “Good night, Merlin.”

“G’night, Gwen.” Merlin waits until the door closes behind her, and then waits a few more seconds before he turns to Morgana and says, somewhat louder than normal, in case of prying ears, “So, Gaius has this new tonic he wants you to try.”

Morgana, bless her, catches on right away. “I hope it works. What is it?”

Merlin spends a few seconds talking about various herbs and their properties, and then concludes with, “He’d like me to sit here with you while you take it, just to make sure you don’t react badly. Is that alright?”

“Yes, of course,” she says with a grin. And then adds, in a quieter voice, “I’m sure she’s gone. I don’t think she’d eavesdrop.” She waves him over to the bed and shifts over to make room for him to sit down on its edge.

Merlin settles and then shrugs. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s just that she seemed a bit worried about you.  Is everything all right?”

When Morgana blushes, she does it prettily. Just a touch of rosy pink hue flushes across her elegant cheekbones. “Oh, it’s nothing, Merlin.  I was just a bit upset earlier about…” she trails off, biting her lips.  “It’s nothing, really.”

Heart lurching to a faster pace, like a horse held tight at the reins and then released to bolt, Merlin carefully asks, “Are you sure?”  What if there was more going on with Morgana and her magic than Merlin ever knew about.

Fresh color suffuses Morgana’s cheeks. “It’s just that… well it’s silly. I’m just worried about the Lady Catrina. Uther seems utterly taken with her and… well, if something were to happen between them, I don’t know what that would mean for me.” She waves her hands around, trying to erase what she just said. “You see, it’s nothing, really.”

“It’s not silly, Morgana.” He can’t help the smile that twists up his mouth. “Although if I tell you something about her, will you promise not to say a word to anyone?”

Morgana leans forward eagerly. “What is it?”

“You swear you won’t say anything? To anyone?”

“I swear,” she replies, solemnly.

Merlin leans forward – he can’t help the conspiratorial air, he wants to tell _someone_ about this. “Lady Catrina…” he pauses (usually such cheap dramatics are beneath him, but he can’t help it this time), “… is a troll.”

“Merlin!” Morgana gives a startled laugh. “What a horrible thing to say. I’m sure she’s perfectly nice.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I mean that she’s a _literal_ troll. She’s using magic to disguise herself as the Lady Catrina. But really? She’s a disgusting, smelly troll.”

Morgana blinks. “You’re serious?”

“Yeah. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

“What do we do about it? Uther’s got to be warned.” She scoots further on the bed, as if she’s going to get up to do just that.

“No,” Merlin holds a hand out, “we can’t. Not yet.  See, she needs to be exposed first.  So Gaius and I need to figure out how to get her to reveal herself.” He thinks back to his memory of this event. “Might take us a couple of weeks.”

“Weeks? Merlin, did you see the way that Uther was looking at her today?  I don’t think you have days, to say nothing of weeks. Uther looked smitten.”

“Morgana, you just have to trust me that Gaius and I will solve this.” He smiles again, meant to reassure. “You know how sometimes you’ve had dreams about events yet to come?”

She nods. “Yes.” Her eyes widen. “Is that what happened? Do you know what’s going to happen?” She peers at him, intrigued.

Merlin nods. “Some of it, yes.  I can tell you with absolute surety that the troll will be revealed and no harm will come to anyone.  Well,” he amends, snickering, “no lasting harm.  Though Uther may not enjoy the next couple of weeks when all is said and done.”

“Merlin!”

Ducking his head, Merlin can’t help but continue to chuckle. “Sorry.  You’re right, I shouldn’t laugh.” A few final, stray giggles slip out.  Morgana frowns – though not very sincerely – and Merlin fights to swallow down the last of them. “You won’t though? Say anything, I mean?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just let me know what you and Gaius are up to, will you? If I can help?”

He nods again. “I will.  Actually that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.  Helping.  I’ve got a place we can meet to start practicing.”

Morgana’s whole body slumps, and she lets out a sigh. It’s relief, Merlin realizes when she says, “Oh thank goodness. I was worried you might have …,” she trails off, unable to meet his eye.

“Forgotten?” He asks, and continues to grin. He doesn’t blame her for doubting. She must still be so confused and worried. “No chance of that. I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

She pats his arm. “No, I’m sorry for doubting.  I just…” The hand settles on his bicep, fingers curling and tightening. “When you told me about you, and about learning about my own magic… it was such a relief to know I wasn’t alone.” She sighs, and then looks at her hand and frowns.  The grip loosens. “I was worried that I’d imagined the whole thing,” she admits in a rush.

Merlin puts a hand over the one on his arm and gives a squeeze. “Well you didn’t. And now I’ve got a place we can go.”

He tells her about the cavern and how to get to it and they spend the next few minutes arranging when to meet.

Just before he’s about to leave, Morgana nods at the bottle he’s still holding. “ _Is_ that from Gaius?”

“Yes, but for Catrina, actually.  He’s trying to gather the proof that she’s not who she says she is.” He shrugs. “It’s a starting place.   I know he won’t be able to convince Uther anything is amiss with the Lady Catrina, but Gaius will want to try.” He frowns. “ _Did_ you want another sleeping draught from Gaius though? I could get you one.”

“No,” Morgana shakes her head and smiles. “I’ve actually been sleeping much better since we talked.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He bids her a good night, and then returns to Gaius.

Gaius looks up when Merlin comes in the room, and Merlin knows the curiosity must be eating at him. He hands over the potion. “She didn’t want it. Said she didn’t need it.”  The last time this played out, Merlin had been confused.  This time, he doesn’t want to let Gaius figure it out too early (thwarting the troll’s plans before she has a chance to effectively woo Uther would ruin things for Merlin’s own plans) but he can’t play the fool either. Gaius is good at seeing through that. “You suspect something, don’t you?”

Gaius nods. “Yes, loath as I am to admit it, but I don’t think that’s the real Lady Catrina.” He holds the potion up. “I knew Catrina as a girl. She had a rare and incurable bone disorder that affected her joints. Some days she could hardly get around at all.  After days on horseback and hiding out in the woods, I’d have expected her to be in agony.”

“Well whoever she is, she didn’t know about the illness that the real Lady Catrina is supposed to have.  She definitely wasn’t in agony. Told me she was in perfect health, even.”

Gaius frowns. “We need to find out who that really is and what she’s up to.”

Merlin pulls out the bench at the little table where they take their meals. “I’ll see what I can figure out.  I’ll do some snooping around. I mean,” he amends when Gaius gives a long-suffering sigh, “I’ll keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

“You do that, my boy. Just be careful. We don’t want her catching on that we’re on to her.”

Merlin nods dutifully. “Don’t you worry, Gaius. I’ll make sure to be careful.” He can’t help that his gaze shifts over to the oat barrel. 

Over the next few days, Merlin manages to stick to that promise. He basically avoids Jonas and Lady Catrina as much as possible, and fills Gaius in on his supposed surveillance.  Things play out eerily similar to events as he remembers them, up until the point that Lady Catrina had accused him of stealing her Royal Seal.   Uther still marries her (and Morgana is torn between horrified and ridiculously amused at that.  She and Merlin have to avoid each other’s eyes during the ceremony) and eventually goes so far as to name her successor to the throne, effectively disowning Arthur. 

Even without Arthur’s failure to capture Merlin as an excuse, Catrina finds plenty of other reasons to question Arthur’s abilities and undermine his commitment to his father.   For Merlin, this is the hardest thing to witness.  Arthur is inconsolable – bitter and sad and so full of self-doubt that it makes Merlin want to just run the troll through with a sword – until Catrina is finally exposed. 

This time, though, Merlin already knows how to break the troll’s spell over Uther.  

When Merlin and Gaius explain it, Arthur looks incredulous. “So your great plan is to kill me?”

Merlin holds out a hand and waggles it back and forth.  “Sort of.  It's...Gaius has made a potion that gives the appearance of death without the actual dying bit. It's fine,” he says with what he hopes is a reassuring grin. “Really, there's nothing to worry about. It'll only bring you to the brink of death.

“Oh, only to the brink.” Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Arthur,” Merlin admonishes, “it will be fine. I… we… Gaius and I, we wouldn’t suggest this if we weren’t _sure_ that you’ll be safe.  Trust me, please.”

Gaius looks a bit shocked at Merlin’s words, but he nods nonetheless. “Merlin is right, Arthur. We have to make your father cry to break the spell.”

Arthur frowns, gaze drifting to the floor. “It won’t work. He doesn't care about me anymore.”

“Nonsense.” Gaius says, and it’s only slightly chiding. “That's Catrina's influence. I've known your father for many, many years. There's never been anyone or anything he's treasured more than you.  And as Merlin said, we wouldn’t risk actually harming you. It's perfectly safe. A single drop of the antidote will reverse the effects immediately.”

“Antidote. What antidote?” Arthur’s eyes bulge out and he turns to glare at Merlin. “You didn't say anything about the antidote!”

Merlin huffs. “Stop being obtuse, Arthur.  It’s not important. We told you we need you to appear dead. Naturally it stands to reason that we’ve got to have something that will bring you back.”

Gaius is a little less blunt (and keeps shooting Merlin odd looks) when he explains, “The potion will lower your heart rate and breathing. For all intents and purposes, you will be dead.”

“And the antidote reverses the effects?” Arthur asks.

“Yes,” Gaius nods. “If it's administered in time.”

“And if it isn't?”

Gaius hesitates a moment. “You _will_ be dead,” he admits.

Arthur spins towards Merlin. “You just said it wasn't important! And that I was being obtuse! Death is not obtuse, Merlin.” He narrows his eyes.  “You know what I mean.”

Merlin holds up his hands, placating. “I didn’t mean that the antidote wasn’t important. I just meant that worrying about it wasn’t. Gaius and I have it covered.”

“Right,” Gaius agrees. “Merlin will have the antidote. Once I have administered the poison....er, the potion, he'll have half an hour to get it to you.”

Arthur points a finger towards Merlin. “Don't be late.”

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I won’t be.” He says it with such conviction that Arthur frowns and stares at him oddly for a moment.

Gaius clears his throat to interrupt the oddly heavy silence. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he asks Arthur.

Arthur nods, resolute. “It's the only way to save Camelot.”

He takes the vial that Gaius hands over and drinks it down in one gulping swallow.  He grimaces a bit at the taste, looks from Gaius to Merlin with a shrug and then his eyelids flicker shut and his whole body slumps.  Merlin catches him and lowers him gently to the floor.

Gaius kneels down to check Arthur’s pulse, then looks up at Merlin. “Time to break the bad news to Uther.” He stands and then claps a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “You’d probably better not be in here when he comes in. We don’t want anything distracting him.”

“Yeah,” Merlin says, nodding absently as Gaius leaves the room. His attention is fixed on Arthur.  He looks lifeless.

It’s too familiar. Seeing him like this.

In all his plotting around using this whole troll incident to manipulate Uther, he hadn’t given a lot of thought to this part of it.  It’s not that he’s forgotten it – not in the least. Those moments where he woke after being struck on the head with a vase by Jonas and saw the broken vial and spilled antidote were burned into his memory - full of heart-rending panic and frantic despair - a painful brand that has scarred over but never fully faded. 

This time, even though he knew Jonas would have no reason to try to keep him out of the way, Merlin went ahead and stashed several other small vials of the antidote in various easily accessible places: Arthur’s dresser, under his mattress, even a spare in his other pocket. 

He knows how little risk there is this time.

Still, as he stares down at Arthur’s body, Merlin feels panic begin to rise.  It’s the hardest thing in the world to leave Arthur’s side.

Arthur will be fine, he tells himself.  Arthur will survive this.

It’s practically a mantra that’s running through his mind as he leaves the room and hides himself away further down the hall, but close enough to run in once the commotion starts.

Which it does, just a few minutes later.  He hears Gaius’ frantic words to Uther as they get closer, and Uther’s vehement denials and disbelief, and of course the troll’s cajoling.  He wants nothing more than to step out from his hiding spot and blast the creature with a bolt of lightning or burst of flame when he hears it urging Uther to ‘leave Arthur to his dramatics’, and ‘The boy is probably lying to get your attention.’ 

Instinct tells him to follow on Uther’s heels to get to Arthur right away.

He waits just outside the door, even with anxiety clawing at his chest.

When Uther breaks down, it’s like Merlin has swallowed smoldering coals that are burning their way through his chest.

Finally, _finally_ , he hears Uther calling for the guards to apprehend the troll and he rushes into the room, unnoticed in the commotion. He tips the whole of the vial – the liquid body-warm from being held in Merlin’s tight grip – into Arthur’s mouth. It only takes a moment, half a heartbeat, before Arthur is awake, sitting up groggily with Merlin’s help. 

And Merlin feels like he can finally breathe again.

Arthur takes in everything going on around him and springs into action. Merlin steps to the background, watching the fighting commence around him.  He hisses out a viciously pleased sound when Arthur’s sword finds Jonas, and when there’s an opportune moment, whispers a quiet, “Fléoge hrægl,” which tugs the rug from beneath the troll’s feet and allows Arthur to get in the killing blow.

Merlin is conscripted into helping clean up the aftermath of the fight with the troll.  He knows that Arthur will be joining Uther for dinner in the evening (Arthur shared a few of the more salient and humorous points of that conversation with Merlin) and he decides to enact the next part of his plan right away.  There was a moment between him and Arthur later – at least in the past – where Arthur actually apologized for doubting him and Merlin gave up the chance to say ‘I told you so’ out of the goodness of his heart (and possible fear of a flogging).  And then an aborted hug. 

Telling himself that he at least has the memory of it – even if it didn’t happen in _this_ life – Merlin finishes with scrubbing the floor free of smelly troll goo and then (after giving himself a good washing as well) he sneaks his way into Uther’s chambers to await the King.

In the decade after Arthur’s death, Merlin spent the majority of his days travelling and learning as much of sorcery and the Old Religion and the Druids ways and even other archaic magics that he could.  He hadn’t been lying to the stranger or Kilgharrah when he said that he was powerful. 

He could now, if it were his wont, summon the _real_ Ygraine – her true spirit - from beyond the veil to speak with Uther.   Much the way that Morgause had done for Arthur.

He thinks, though (considering the words she spoke to Arthur then and her vehemence about Uther’s actions), that it wouldn’t suit his purposes very well at all to bring forth the _real_ Ygraine.  At least not entirely.  An image of Ygraine will serve him better, and though he’ll have to take care in using her as a mouthpiece, he’s not forgotten what the genuine spirit of Ygraine had sounded like when she spoke to Arthur.

He is, in essence, summoning the shade of Ygraine Pendragon.  Her will, though, will be Merlin’s and her words influenced by his thoughts.  He could – again, if he wanted to - pantomime the entire scene; have her speak any words he wishes, but he needs for this to be real for Uther. He needs Uther to believe that this _is_ his long-dead wife pleading with him to change.  Because it is, in a way.

It will take all Merlin’s concentration to keep the balance steady. To not let too much of the true spirit of Ygraine through but enough that Uther believes it’s really her.

It isn’t going to be easy.  

So, while Uther and Arthur are at their evening meal, Merlin slips into Uther’s chambers and hides himself away in a corner of the room in the shadows behind a tall armoire and a suit of armor where the light from the crackling fire and dancing candles doesn’t quite reach. 

He mutters a quick concealment spell. It won’t hide him if he does something stupid like make noise or reveal himself (fortunately, with his older psyche he also brought a bit better control over his gangly body’s coordination and occasional penchant for clumsiness) but it will discourage anyone from looking too closely in his direction.

It’s at least an hour later (and he’s glad he made sure he was settled in a position that wouldn’t leave him cramped or pained) when Uther finally returns to his room.   Sir Leon is with him and they’re talking as Uther walks over to a small table and removes the crown.

“The proclamations have been issued, Sire.” Leon says.

“Good,” Uther nods, and starts to lift the heavy chain of office from around his neck. “Report back to me tomorrow on the progress. If anyone is overheard to be discussing recent… events,” his face twists in disgust, “you will let me know.”

Leon inclines his head. “Yes, Sire.” Merlin is impressed by Leon’s stoicism, though he thinks he sees a smirk just tugging at Leon’s mouth.

“You may go.” Uther dismisses the Knight with a wave of his hand.

As soon as Leon is out of the room and has closed the door behind him, Merlin starts to whisper the words to his spell.  Uther continues to move about, clearly readying himself for bed.   Merlin wonders – but doesn’t let it interrupt him – about the fact that Uther doesn’t seem to have a servant on hand to assist. He knows from castle gossip that Uther has a bevy of nameless people who serve him in different capacity – although, unlike Arthur, Uther clearly doesn’t trust letting one individual too close.

Dismissing the thought (he really doesn’t need the distraction of thinking of Arthur right now), Merlin lifts an arm and finishes the spell with a thrust of his hand. “Aris mid min miclan mihte thin ferhplufu to helpe. Hider eft funda on thysne middangeard thin ferhplufu weis.”

A hazy, grey column appears in the middle of the room. Uther’s got his back to it as he shrugs out of his doublet and doesn’t see the smoky mist shape itself and form into a roughly human figure.  When Uther turns it’s just before the features have coalesced but the rest is almost solid.

He gasps and throws himself back. “Who…” Then his eyes narrow and he hisses, “Magic.”  He takes another step away, putting his back against the wall. Not taking his eyes off the figure that’s finally clarifying into more than just a vague person, he starts to reach for a sword and opens his mouth, “Guard—“

“Uther, stop.”

Any further call for help falls away from Uther’s mouth as it gapes in shock. 

“Ygraine?” he manages, the word little more than a hoarse whisper.

“Yes, Uther, it’s me.” The figure – slightly shimmery and semi-translucent, but clear enough - finally looks like Ygraine Pendragon, just as Merlin remembered seeing her when Morgause summoned her for Arthur.

Uther shakes his head. “No, this isn’t you. This is some wicked sorcery.” His hand edges towards the sword again.

“Yes, Uther.” Ygraine steps forward. “Yes,” she says again, “It _is_ sorcery. It was magic that brought me from beyond the veil to speak with you.  But it is me, I assure you.”

“Why are you here? Who has done this to you?” Some of the fury and panic starts to smooth out of Uther’s features. They slowly slacken his mouth to a frown and his eyes to pleading.

“It is troll magic, Uther.”

“The troll is dead,” he protests.

“But the spell had already been cast, Uther.  I was called to come forth at moonrise tonight.  I was but the last step in that evil creature's nefarious plot to gain control of Camelot.”

“How would bringing you back to me do such a thing?” Uther slides forward half a pace, his hands lifting then resettling at his sides as if he wants to reach out.

Ygraine sighs sadly. “She wanted you driven mad, Uther.  Mad enough that people wouldn’t find it too difficult to believe that you’d killed yourself.” It was the best explanation Merlin could manage for why Ygraine might be appearing to Uther.  It has some basis in truth, as there have been attempts (by Morgana) to drive Uther to madness.

Incredulous, Uther repeats, “Kill myself?”

“That is what she wanted your council to believe. That you’d lost your mind enough to do so.” Ygraine nods. “But she planned to kill you herself.”

“Why on—“

Ygraine interrupts, “She wanted Camelot for herself, Uther. The power and wealth.  If you were killed outright, she would’ve been the most obvious suspect. Even the council couldn’t ignore that. But to drive you mad, and then have it appear as if you killed yourself… well how could the blame be laid on her? You _married_ a troll, Uther.  It would not have been too far a leap for the people to make that perhaps you’d been mad all along.”

“This!” Uther declares, slamming a fist into his opposite palm. “This is why magic is outlawed.  It brings nothing but evil.”

“Nothing, Uther?” Ygraine asks gently, though her tone starts to arch (Merlin needs to keep careful control of his own feelings on this, lest they start to affect Ygraine’s spirit. He’s instilled this shade with enough of his own words and intentions, but he could still push too hard). “What of Arthur?  Is he not worth my sacrifice?”

Uther hastens forward then. He reaches for Ygraine’s hand and stops himself short.  She sees that, frowns sadly and then closes the distance with her own hands.  Uther lets out a shocked breath when her delicate fingers fold around his. “You’re cold, my love.”

“I’m dead, Uther.  There’s no warmth in the realm beyond.”

Merlin’s own brows lift, impressed with his own handiwork. He’d planned on summoning spirit and visage, but he’s apparently managed a physical form as well.

 “I didn’t mean… I never wanted that to happen, my love.  You must believe me.” He draws her hands up to his mouth, pressing them against his lips and whispering, “I’m sorry, Ygraine. I’m so sorry.”

“I know, Uther. I have watched you. You, and our son.  And you must know that I would give my life again for him in an instant.”

“I would not trade my son for anything… but,” He hesitates, looking down at the stone floor, “but, if I had known what was to happen, I’d never have made my request of that wretched sorceress and her hateful, spiteful magic.”

“Arthur was born of _magic_ , Uther, not of hate or spite.  He was born of _love_.  The love I had for the life I carried, and your love for me.”  Fixing him with a firm look, Ygraine pulls their joined hands down and makes Uther look her in the eye. “Listen to me, Uther.  I know that you were desperate for an heir, and so was I.  I wanted to give you a child more than anything.  And you have to know that if you’d told me what you planned, if you’d taken me with you to Nimueh, I’d have gone with you, gladly.”

Uther wrenches himself away from Ygraine with a terrible moan of despair.

“Uther, I do not tell you that to cause you pain.  I have forgiven you for your choice, and you need to forgive yourself.”

Uther flinches. “How can you even speak to me of forgiveness, Ygraine? I caused your death.  And to be brought back now, to witness this…” Uther throws his hands up wildly. Merlin’s never seen him this out of sorts. “I married a troll, for God’s sake. You must hate me so very much.”

“Do you think I want you to suffer, love?  Do you think I want you to be alone and heartbroken for the rest of your days? Granted, I’d not see you spend your days with a troll,” Ygraine actually gives a little smile. Again, Merlin starts to worry a little too much of himself is filtering through. “But that doesn’t mean that I don’t wish for you to be happy.”

Uther snorts noisily. “I am happy, Ygraine.  Camelot prospers. Arthur is turning into a fine son, and will someday be a good ruler in his own right.”

“You’re lonely, Uther.  And you let that loneliness guide you into wrong-headed choices.”

“Is this what the troll wanted you to do? Counsel me into madness?” he asks, bitterly.

“No, Uther.” Ygraine replies, matter-of-fact, not letting herself be baited. “But I will take this opportunity while I have it.   I have watched you from the realm beyond these last twenty years.  I have watched you rally against a cause for the wrong reasons.  You’ve invalidated the sacrifice I made for our son. You’ve driven magic from Camelot solely because you needed something to blame for my death, and it was the wrong thing to do, love. It was wrong and your continued fight against it is wrong as well.”

“What would you have me do, Ygraine?  Welcome magic back into Camelot after I’ve spent the last twenty years cleansing the city of its' evil?”

“Yes,” Ygraine says, vehemently.

Uther scoffs. “Perhaps I am mad already.  For it is madness that I even consider such thoughts.”

Ygraine stomps a foot and then pokes a finger into Uther’s chest.  She’s a slight, fair woman but Merlin doesn’t think he’d want to be on the receiving end of her ire. He’d always thought Arthur got his temper from his father, yet clearly some of his stubborn nature is inherited from her. “Uther Pendragon,” she punctuates each word with another jab, “do not mock me.  Dare I remind you that I am dead and for what reason?”

Physically jerking back from that, Uther strides across the room. “I could never forget, Ygraine. Never. And it is because of magic that you are lost to me. I cannot forget that.”

“Magic isn’t the evil you perceive it to be. It is a tool or weapon just like any plow or sword. How it is wielded and by who matters more than the magic itself. You used to understand that,” she says beseechingly. “You used to welcome magic in your kingdom and you appreciated it for what it was.” 

“I was wrong, Ygraine,” he says, back still to her, “and I was foolish and naïve. Magic, all magic, is evil.”

“That’s not true,” she argues. “You turned your own guilt into this dark and unforgiving hatred of magic and that will be your undoing, Uther.   You forget than I am beyond this world, and as such, I have knowledge of what has been and what is yet to come.  I _know_ what waits for you, Uther, if you do not change your ways.”

That turns Uther around. “What do you mean? What is yet to come?”

Ygraine shakes her head. “I cannot tell you, Uther.  No man is meant to know his fate. All that I can do is warn you that this path you tread, this vehemence to eradicate all magic…  It will turn on you, Uther.   It is not the right way.  You do not know just how much magic still exists around you. Our own son has been saved by sorcery on more than one occasion.”

“And it is that very same sorcery that would see him dead.”  

“Uther, magic isn’t inherently evil. You need to stop thinking that way.  You must remember how it was when I was still by your side and we looked to sorcerers as council and allies.  It must be that way again, else Camelot will fall.”

“Ygraine, I cannot. You know this.”

“Please, Uther.  Just think on it. Please.”

Clearly, Uther still isn’t convinced if his frown is anything to go by.

And Ygraine is obviously aware of that as well. “Uther, I have seen countless deaths and horrors committed by you against sorcerers and their kind.  How do you think that feels for me? To know that it was _me_ , my dying because you made an arrangement with a sorcerer without considering the consequences, that has resulted in such loss.  I feel as if every one of those lives lost is because of me. And that is a weight I do not want to carry, Uther. Even in the realm beyond it is too heavy a burden to bear.”

“It’s not… I don’t.” Uther swallows hard. “My actions against sorcery are not…”

“You’ve never considered it that way, but that is the truth of it.  You must make things right.  And,” she lifts her chin, “you must also tell our son the truth of his birth.  He needs to know.”

Uther’s dismissal is immediate and firm. “No!  Arthur mustn’t... he can’t know.”

“He’s no longer a little boy, Uther. He’s grown into a wonderful man, that you should be proud of.”  This, Merlin can feel, comes from none of his influence (no matter how much he feels it to be true). This is the real Ygraine coming through.

“And I am.” Uther counters. Merlin fights the urge to scoff.  

“But you still don’t see him as a man, capable of leading men to die in battle or making decisions about his own life. Capable even, of ruling this kingdom.”

Uther denies that with a shake of his head. “He’s not ready for that.”

“He’s more than ready, Uther. He has been for some time.  He’s also mature enough to know where he comes from. He deserves to know the truth of his birth—“

“No!” Uther snaps, interrupting her. “No, he doesn’t need to know.”

“Trust me, Uther. You need to tell him.   I know this much.  Else someone else will use that knowledge against you.”

“Someone like Nimueh, you mean?”

“Nimueh is dead, Uther.”

“Dead?” he frowns. “How?”

“Killed, by another sorcerer. One acting in the best interests of this Kingdom and your son, I might add.” Merlin sucks in air, noiselessly.  It seems Ygraine’s spirit is more aware of what goes on in Camelot than he’d realized.

“What do you mean?”

Ygraine shakes her head in denial. Merlin lets out the breath just as silently. “I cannot say more.  But just as there are forces of good - hidden though they may be - on your side, there are those aligning against you, Uther. You’ve made enemies of sorcerers and practitioners of the Old Religion with your zealotry.  But it’s not too late to change things.”

“Ygraine, you ask too much of me.” Uther scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’d never thought to see you again, and here you are with admonishments and demands.”

“I’m not through asking, Uther.” A small smile quirks across her lips. “There is yet one more thing I insist upon.”

Uther throws up his hands. “What else could there possibly be?”

Ygraine crosses her arms.  Merlin sees so much of Arthur in the look she pins Uther with.  He’s been on the receiving end of it many times before.  Usually there’s a pointing finger or clenched fist involved as well.

When Uther just stares, uncomprehending, Ygraine snaps, “Morgana.”

Merlin hadn’t thought that Uther could look any more shocked – he’s already been faced with so much since turning around and finding the ghost of his dead wife in his bed chamber – but his whole face blanches and his eyes go wide.

Still, he tries to stammer his way out of it. “Wh… what about her?”

Hands on her hips now (and that’s a look Merlin knows from _his_ own mother), Ygraine just shakes her head.

“You know?” Uther practically wails.

“Yes, Uther, I know.  I told you, I’ve been watching you from the other side.”

Uther starts stammering explanations again, “I didn’t mean… it was after you were gone. I was lonely and so was Vivianne… Gorlois was away…” His hands clutch at empty air, as if he can pull excuses from nothingness.

Ygraine takes pity on him. She takes hold of his wrists and pulls his arms between them, stilling their frantic motion. “Uther, I know this. I know you were a broken man for many years.” She’s sympathetic when she says that, but not necessarily kind.  “I don’t begrudge you taking comfort in your loneliness, but I cannot say I approve of your philandering.  I approve even less the fact that you’ve not acknowledged your own daughter!”

“I cannot,” Uther protests. Bravely, Merlin thinks, considering the way his wife is staring him down. “For our son’s sake. I cannot put the succession at risk.”

Ygraine spins away from him, head held high, and arms crossed over her chest. “You mean you cannot put Camelot at risk.”

Uther frowns, puzzled. “Well, yes.”

“You’re not worried about our son, Uther.  You’re worried about this Kingdom. I should have remembered,” she says, bitterly.  “Always, it was Camelot.  Even your sorrow over not having a son had little to do with having a child with me, with us having a family, but was instead about securing the future of your Kingdom and your legacy.”

These are not Merlin’s thoughts. There is more of the true Ygraine here than he realized.

Clearly her words are hitting Uther hard. He looks staggered.

“Ygraine, my love—“

“Don’t try to ply me with soft words, Uther.   For many years as I lingered in the world beyond, unable to pass on, it was bitterness towards you that kept me trapped there, unable to find peace. But I watched you, Uther, and I saw your sorrow and regret.  Even as you channeled that into your wrong-headed hate of all things magic, I still wanted to believe it was grief over losing me...  But, I should’ve realized it was little to do with me, and everything to do with your Kingdom.” Ygraine is almost flip as she adds a cutting, “You must’ve been relieved to have an excuse to go ahead with your purge.”

“Ygraine,” Uther says hollowly. He sounds gutted. “How could you think that? I nearly died for grief of losing you.  I don’t even know how I survived…  I think if I hadn’t had Arthur to look after…” He trails off, and Merlin has never seen him a more broken man. It’s actually a bit humbling.  He doesn’t necessarily feel sorry for Uther – he’s seen too much hate from the man for that – but it does soften his dislike for the King somewhat.

Ygraine whirls around to face him and her eyes are narrowed, lips pursed in a tight scowl. “Then why do you fight so hard to protect your Kingdom instead of your children?”

“I… I only protect Camelot for the sake of them. For their future.”

“But what future do you offer them?  Arthur to follow you into your blind hatred for magic and the rule of a Kingdom doomed to fall because of it?” She arches a brow. “And what of Morgana? Some arranged marriage for the betterment of solidifying ties with some other lands?   Never knowing you are her father… growing to hate you for feeling she is nothing more than a pawn in your schemes.”

Uther says nothing. Which comes as a surprise to Merlin.  He expected the King to jump to his own defense.   

“Do you want your son to die early trying to live up to your expectations, and your own daughter to despise you?”

“No,” Uther’s head jerks from side to side. His cheeks are damp. “No, I don’t want that.”

“Then why won’t you listen to me? Please, Uther.” She puts her hands on his cheeks, lets her thumbs swipe away the tears. “Please. I only ask that you listen and consider all that I’ve said. Do so with the knowledge that this is what is right. It is right for you, and for your children and even for Camelot.”

Uther places his own hands over hers and gives the barest nod. “I will, Ygraine. I will consider all that you have told me.”

Ygraine pulls his head down then, and he bows to her obediently so she can place a kiss on his forehead.

This is more than Merlin had counted on, really. And now he should probably leave and let the spell run its course.  Ygraine had been telling the truth about moonrise.  Merlin tied her appearance to the moon and as soon as it sets beyond the hills and its light falls away from the keep, she’ll fade – her spirit returning to the realm beyond the veil.

He’s about to sneak out (Uther has Ygraine in his arms and his eyes are squeezed shut and they’re both crying) when there’s a knock at the door.

Merlin pauses, even as Uther lifts his head in alarm and says, “Who’s there?”

The door opens immediately. Which can only mean one thing.

“Father,” Arthur is saying as he steps into the room, “I was wonder—“  He stops, looks somewhat embarrassed at first, catching Uther with a woman, and then his eyes narrow.  Merlin sees it the moment Arthur recognizes that Uther is holding onto something that’s not entirely human.  Arthur draws his sword and advances.

“Arthur, no, wait!” Uther rushes to put himself between Arthur’s blade and Ygraine.

“Father, what is this?” He gestures with the point of the sword. “Who or what is that?”

“Arthur, I can explain.  This is—“

Ygraine steps around Uther, pushing his arm out of the way. “Arthur.” It’s all she says, but her eyes are wide and glistening and there’s a tremulous smile forming on her thin, pale lips.

Arthur falters and the sword droops, the tip lowering to scrape against the worn-stone floor.  The expression on his face is the same as on hers. “Mother?” he asks, plaintively. 

When Ygraine nods, the weapon slips from Arthur’s fingers to land with a clang, and he lunges forward.  He’s caught up in his mother’s arms in the next heartbeat. “I don’t understand,” he whispers into her hair. “How can this be?”

Uther, teary-eyed once more, just says, “We’ll explain, Arthur.”

This is when Merlin knows it’s time to leave. 

He hadn’t wanted Arthur to go through the pain he’d experienced when Morgause had summoned Ygraine. Merlin had hoped to spare him that.  But, as he slips around a tall cupboard and then along the well-shadowed wall to the door, he sneaks a glance back at Arthur – still holding tight to his mother, and Uther standing close with a hand on each of them – he’s glad at this turn of events. 

Now Arthur’s only memory of his mother will be a better one.  Yes, the truth will come out.  Merlin knows this because it is what _he_ would want for Arthur, and his will is still at play (no matter how much the real Ygraine managed to come through there’s still enough of Merlin in his summoning to exert control).  But it will be accompanied by Ygraine’s forgiveness of Uther rather than her denouncement of him and he’s sure that will make all the difference.

Merlin goes back to Arthur’s room to wait, as he knows Arthur’s going to be some time and also because it’s almost more comfortable than his own room.  He wants to be there for Arthur so that Arthur has someone to talk to after.   He doesn’t think that Arthur would come and seek him out, no matter how much he needs to.  Maybe if this were the Arthur that Merlin knew as a King, then perhaps (well, he still wouldn’t _seek_ Merlin out, but he’d have no second thoughts about having Merlin summoned to him), but not _this_ Arthur, not _yet_.

Unfortunately he has precious little to keep him occupied while he waits.  He’s been so conscientious about keeping Arthur’s room clean that unless he wants to start moving furniture or scrubbing down the walls (which he really doesn’t, not again) there’s not much to do.  Arthur’s armor is already laid out on the table, organized and shining.  There aren’t many books in Arthur’s room: a few military strategies, and several histories of Camelot.  Merlin takes one of latter (out from where its propping up one of the helmets Arthur has decorating a shelf) and sits down at the table to read.

He must fall asleep because the next thing he knows the door to Arthur’s room is opening and his head is down on Arthur’s table. He slams the book shut and sits up straight as Arthur walks into the room.

“Merlin?” Arthur looks over at him, frowning.  He looks oddly flushed and peaky.  His eyes are red-rimmed but his expression is one of confusion, not sadness. “It’s late. What’re you doing here still?”

“I thought you might need to talk.”

Arthur’s mouth does something that Merlin would call a grimace if it didn’t also look just a fraction pleased. “Talk? About what?  The state of this room.” He casts his gaze about, looking for something to chastise Merlin over.  The frown comes back when he realizes just how neat and tidy everything is.

“No,” Merlin shakes his head.  Arthur isn’t going to bring it up, he can already tell. That means Merlin has to initiate the discussion - delicately. “Arthur,” he begins, and just blurts out, “I… followed you.  I saw…”  Delicate is not his forte.

“What!?” Arthur stalks to the table and slaps a hand down on it. “You were following me? Spying on me?”

Merlin pushes his chair back, sliding it across the floor with a harsh scraping sound. “No, I mean… Look, I went to look for you.  I… I…” his mind flails frantically for a good excuse, “I wanted to see how you were doing after taking Gaius’ potion.  Gaius said there were sometimes after effects. Nothing serious,” he hastens to say when Arthur’s eyes go wide (and slightly apoplectic). “Just sometimes a little dizziness or headache.”

“So you followed me to ask me if I had a headache?” From the angle of Arthur’s brows, he’s not buying it.

“No, well not exactly. I mean yes, I went looking for you to ask you that.  And then I ran into Sir Leon and he told me he’d seen you go to visit your father, so I went to the King’s chamber.” He drops his gaze to the tabletop. “The door was open. I heard voices.” He looks up. “Three voices, Arthur.”

“And you just what? Sat outside the door and had a listen?”

“No!” Merlin holds his hands up to ward off a looming Arthur. “No, I _closed_ the door so you wouldn’t be disturbed and came back here to wait.  I didn’t… I only heard a few words…  I just wanted to wait here. To tell you that… that I saw… _her_ and that I realized who she was.”

Arthur holds the scowl and clenched fists for a very long, nerve-wracking minute and then it’s as if all the fight goes out of him. He draws out another chair and slumps down into it, resting his elbows on the table and dropping his forehead onto his hand.

“Was that,” Merlin begins tentatively, “Was that your mother?”

Arthur lifts his head up enough that he can look at Merlin. “I thought you heard?”

“Not much. I mean, I heard Uther telling you that it was… that there was a spell.”

Another few minutes pass and Merlin thinks that maybe Arthur isn’t going to open up to him at all. But then Arthur sighs – a very resigned and put upon sort of sigh - and sits up. He points a finger at Merlin. “Not a word of this to anyone, you understand.”

“Of course.” Merlin nods vigorously.

“Yes,” Arthur confirms, “there was a spell.  More magic the troll was responsible for.”

“So that was your Mother then?”

Arthur nods. “Yes, her spirit.”

“Why would the troll bring back your Mother’s spirit?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Merlin. Why would a troll enchant my father in the first place? Oh, here’s a thought: to take over Camelot.”

Merlin wrinkles his nose. “I was only asking. No need to be so sarcastic.”

“I’ll be as sarcastic as I like, Merlin.” Arthur counters, though the words are belied by his softened tone.

“What was she like?” Merlin asks quietly.

Arthur’s gaze shifts up, past Merlin’s shoulder, going distant. “I knew it was her the moment I looked into her eyes.” He looks back at Merlin and his cheeks pink, but he goes on. “She was just like I’d always imagined her to be. Just the way my father described, the few times he ever let himself talk of her.” A half smile pushes at one of the flushed cheeks, creasing it. “Kind, and gentle.  And she has a beautiful laugh.  But she was real too,” he says, suddenly fierce, “and that’s how I knew she was no mere illusion. She wasn’t afraid to tell me hard truths.”

Merlin swallows. “What truths?” He wonders if Arthur will admit it.

To his surprise Arthur meets his eye frankly and without hesitation. “That I was born as the result of magic.”

Merlin does his best to look startled (which isn’t too difficult, as he’s rather shocked that Arthur just came out and said it like that).

“What do you mean?”

“My mother couldn’t conceive.  My father went to the sorceress Nimueh for help.  He didn’t know…” Arthur looks down at his hands, at his mother’s ring on his finger. “Apparently magic requires balance and to create life, a life must be taken.  That life was my mother’s. That is why she died when I was born.”

“Arthur,” Merlin tries to find some words, some comfort he can offer, but Arthur keeps talking.

“All this time I’ve felt… responsible for her death. That there was something wrong with me and that’s why she died giving birth to me. That perhaps if I’d died instead, she might have lived.” He spins the ring idly. “And I’ve always thought my father blamed me.” He snorts, softly.

“And yet it was Uther’s fault.” Merlin concludes.

“Well, not to hear him tell it. He blames the magic, of course.” Arthur rolls his eyes. “But despite that, my mother told me…” Arthur’s voice catches then. “She said that even if she’d known what the cost would be, she’d have paid it gladly.” Again he looks away, but not before Merlin can see the glint of moisture in his eyes.

“It must be a great comfort,” Merlin says gently, “to know how much she loves you.”

“It is,” Arthur acknowledges with the barest nod.  A tear, then another, drips down Arthur’s chin to splash on the table.  He ignores them.

“And what about your father?” Merlin prods, still gentle and calm. “You must’ve been upset to learn the truth.”

“Oh, I was angry, Merlin.” He swings his head back, facing Merlin once again, completely unashamed of the wetness streaking his face. “I couldn’t believe he’d lied to me all these years. But,” he spreads his hands, “my mother… forgave him.  She is so strong. So full of compassion and kindness.  She wants us to try harder to communicate. To be more open with each other. To be less afraid of magic.” He shakes his head in wonder. “I can scarcely believe my father agreeing to any of that, but especially the last.

“All my life I’ve heard about nothing but how terrible magic is. How those that practice sorcery are evil and wrong and must be stopped.  But my father didn’t used to feel that way.  Camelot didn’t used to be this way.  My mother said… she said that my father even had sorcerers on the council and called them friends.” He lowers his head again, ashamed. “And then my mother died and he needed something to blame.”

Heart in his throat, Merlin can only nod.  _This_ is what Morgause had ruined last time.  Arthur coming to his _own_ opinion about magic, instead of listening only to his father.   “I think,” he begins tentatively, “just from what little I’ve seen or Gaius has told me, that magic is neither good, nor evil.  It is just something that certain people have an affinity for.  Like any skill, be it with a blade or mixing a potion or even intellect, it can be used to give aid or to protect or defend, but in the wrong hands it can also be used to harm or kill.  I don’t think there’s anything inherently bad or wrong about it.”

Arthur listens thoughtfully.  He gives a slight, but nonetheless affirming nod. “Perhaps you’re right.”

Silence descends then, although it’s not uncomfortable.  It’s many minutes later that Arthur finally breaks it. “I think I’d’ like to sleep now.” He stands and Merlin does likewise. He turns away, towards the bed and then back to Merlin. “But thank you, for staying. For listening.”

Merlin gives a slow nod. “Of course, Arthur. It was my… honor.” He goes to the door and then pauses. “Perhaps a late breakfast tomorrow, Sire?”

That gets him a small smile, a grin that flashes and is gone in a moment, but Merlin takes heart from it. “Perhaps that’s best.”

~~~~~~~~

The next few weeks pass with relative quiet.  Amidst his regular duties Merlin keeps an ear out for any signs that his ghostly visitor’s instructions have made their impression on Uther.   The first he hears of anything is during one of his and Morgana’s midnight training sessions in Kilgharrah’s cavern. 

“No,” Merlin says, though with patience, “that’s not _quite_ it.” They’re sitting on the ground – though Morgana thoughtfully brought a heavy fur throw – with their backs against the water-worn stone.  There are a couple of spell books scattered about (Merlin puts them away at the end of every session, hiding them behind the rocks where the chain that held Kilgharrah is moored) and even a pair of goblets and a – now empty – pitcher litter the stone.  The cavern is working out even better than Merlin had hoped.  A few times when Morgana was practicing with lighting candles and her efforts were a bit more… enthusiastic than intended, it resulted in new scorch marks on the stone.

He repeats the incantation for Morgana, enunciating carefully. “It’s bebay odothay arisan quickum.” 

Morgana echoes him, speaking the words slow and clear. “Bebay odothay arisan quickum.”

The intended target is a lifesize - though smallish - carving of a rabbit that he managed to finagle from a particularly thrifty wood-carver after spending a week finding and discarding more pieces of animal statuary than he cares to admit (there are _far_ too many carved lions and bas relief dragons and sculptures of horrible creatures around Camelot); he’s not going to put Morgana through the headache he experienced trying to deal with the statue of the dog he’d brought to life.

“Relax,” he encourages softly when Morgana begins to frown. This is their third such session and she’s proving to be an apt pupil (not that that surprises him, considering his knowledge of the powerful witch she’s capable of becoming). 

Prior to this, they’ve spent their time working on developing Morgana’s focus and control.  She’s mastered some very simple spells – kindling a flame, moving small objects and a few others that Merlin’s been able to do with barely a thought since early childhood. 

The transformation spell is his first attempt at letting Morgana learn a spell from a tome.

“Don’t force it,” he suggests after her next attempt fails. “Say it like you’re just breathing out the words.”

She takes a deep breath and on the exhale just barely whispers the words of the spell. “Bebay odothay arisan quickum.”

As Merlin watches the rabbit seems to shimmer and the wood grain texture of the carving morphs to variegated brown fur.  The – living, breathing – bunny lifts its head and its pink nose twitches.

Morgana claps her hands delightedly.  “I did it!” She scoops up the rabbit and sets it in her lap, smoothing her hand over the soft-looking fur.  She beams at Merlin. “You’re a very good teacher, Merlin.”

Ducking his head and grinning – Morgana is a bit too generous with her compliments and he doesn’t always know how to react to them – he just shrugs a little foolishly. “I’m glad that you think so.  Sometimes I sort of find myself stumbling into things where magic is concerned.  Like I think I mentioned, until I came to Camelot, I never had a spell book to learn from. So everything I could do was just…” he lifts his shoulders again, “instinct I guess.  And I’ll be honest, Morgana, you’re doing really well. Better than me with this spell, I’ll tell you that much.”

She scoffs. “You must be joking. Merlin, you’re a natural.”

He shakes his head.  “Not with spells like this one.  Some magic does come naturally,” he admits, and the hurries to add, “but sometimes I have to keep trying and trying to get it to work out.”

“When was the first time you tried this spell?”

“Remember the snakes in Valiant’s shield?”

Morgana gasps softly. “That was you?”

“Well, he _was_ using a magic shield. The snakes were really there, but I just made them come out before he’d summoned them.” He nods to the rabbit, which is sitting rather placidly on Morgana’s crossed legs, hardly twitching under the repetitive strokes of her hand. “I tried it on a statue of a dog and… I think I sat up all night just trying that spell over and over again. It wasn’t until I was practically nodding off from exhaustion that I managed to get it right.” He gives a sort of grimacing chuckle. “And, well, let’s just say that Gaius and I had an adventure dealing with dog afterwards.”

Morgana laughs with him, but then she quiets and her brows furrow. “Merlin, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why did you try to turn Valiant in?  I mean… I don’t know how to say this without causing offense,” she looks at Merlin rather helplessly.

“It’s okay, Morgana,” he reassures. He knows where she’s going with this. He’s actually expected this to come up. “You’re asking how I could betray a fellow sorcerer?”

He says it gently, but she still winces a little before she gives a sheepish nod.

“Well, in Valiant’s case he wasn’t really a sorcerer. He was just a fool who wanted to use magic to cheat because he didn’t have the natural talent to be a real champion.   And truthfully, even in that case, I might have found it forgivable,” he spreads his hands, “I mean, we all do foolish things.  But he used magic to harm, to kill.” He takes his time as he explains this.  He needs for Morgana to understand this more than anything. “Magic is only as good or as bad as the user.  Magic by itself is just… magic. It has no intent of its own.  The person wielding it is what gives magic its intent.

“People like Valiant and the Sorceress Nimueh and the Warlock Sigan, they all twisted magic to their own dark purposes.  They turned something brilliant and wonderful that can do so much good into something dark and evil and… they’re the reason that people like Uther fear magic.”

Morgana looks thoughtful.  “Have you ever used magic to cause harm?”

It’s a fair question, but Merlin flinches internally.  He won’t lie to her though. “Yes, I have.” He holds up a hand to fend off any interruptions. “But you need to understand that I’ve only ever used magic that way when it was to protect someone. I would never use magic that way unless there was a very good reason, and it was to keep someone safe.”

“Have you ever killed?” she asks, eyes wide and beguilingly innocent.   She looks almost terrified of the having asked question. And even more afraid of the answer.

Merlin can’t look at her when he nods his head. “I have.  Bandits, a few times.   Men who were trying to kill Arthur or you, or Gwen.” He lifts his gaze from his shoes and catches hers. “The mercenaries in Ealdor.  I was the one who summoned the wind devil.”

Her mouth opens in a little ‘oh’, but she says nothing.  Under her now stilled hands, the rabbit shifts and pushes off of her lap. Merlin watches as it starts to carefully explore its new surroundings, ears pivoting forward and back, taking a few tentative hop-steps before settling down and tucking itself under the curve of Morgana’s knee.

“Being able to use magic is a great responsibility, Morgana. It’s not one to be taken lightly and not always an easy one to bear.  Not a day goes by that I don’t question some of the things I’ve done.” He leans forward, earnest as he’s ever been. “But I believe that you’re strong enough to bear that responsibility, Morgana. You’ve a good heart and you’re kind and you care so deeply for your friends.” He forces the widest smile he can manage, which isn’t easy with the way his stomach is tying itself in knots.   He knows, viscerally, what magic could turn Morgana into.

Morgana’s eyes are glistening, but she smiles hopefully. “You truly think so, Merlin? I sometimes worry about the… burden.  About being too tempted by how easy magic could make things sometimes.” She shifts guiltily. “I’ve sometimes thought what it would be like to use magic to change Uther’s mind about sorcery.”

“Oh, Morgana.” Merlin lets out a soft huff of laughter. “There’s no harm in thinking things like that. Truth? I’ve thought about what that would be like myself.  It’s like any kind of daydream though, isn’t it? It’s not something you’d ever act on.”

The guilty look doesn’t leave her face though. “Could I have done something like that though? Without meaning it?  I’ve done other things, while I was sleeping and having nightmares.”

“Could you have done what?” Merlin frowns. He’s not following.

“Influenced Uther without meaning to.”

Merlin shakes his head. “I don’t think you could do something quite so powerful without intending to.  Starting a candle flame burning or shattering a vase, those things, yes. But changing a person’s mind? Controlling them? That takes powerful and dark magic.  No, you needn’t worry about having done something like that accidentally.” He frowns. What brought this on? “Why do you ask?”

“You weren’t at court today, were you?”

Again, Merlin casts his head side to side. “No, I was helping Gaius tend to the bowyer’s family. They had that fire in their house last week?  We had to check to see how the burns were healing.”

“Right,” Morgana nods. “It’s just that during open court today there was a young girl brought in. Her neighbor had accused her of using sorcery to heal their livestock.  I guess they’d contracted some kind of wasting disease, and it’s affected quite a few farms in one of the outlying villages. But this girl, it’s just her and her elderly Uncle left on their farm. And her cows were sickly and then they got better.”

“Did she use magic?”

Morgana shrugs. “She didn’t admit to it, but you know how Uther is. Even the slightest hint is usually enough for him to pass judgment.”

Merlin nods.  He knows all too well. He’s been on the receiving end of those accusations once or twice.

“Well he didn’t.” Morgana’s voice is tremulous. “He just told the neighbor woman that if she didn’t have proof of sorcery, there was nothing he could do. And then he cautioned the girl that if she was, in fact, using any kind of sorcery, she’d better stop lest he banish her from Camelot.” She looks over to Merlin, wide-eyed. “ _Banish_ , Merlin. Not hanging or burning at the stake or even being thrown in the dungeons.”

Merlin schools his features to calm even though he wants to jump up and run around and shout in exultation. It’s working!  Uther is changing his behavior because of Ygraine.   Calmly he says, “I have to say I’m surprised to hear that. Maybe the incident with the troll softened him somewhat.” He suggests. “After all, it was magic that saved him from the troll’s enchantment.”

At first Morgana looks thoughtful but then she frowns. “Perhaps. But this is _Uther_. I would’ve expected that to turn him even _more_ against sorcery.  It was troll magic that was used against him after all.”

All that he really can do is shrug, so Merlin does. “Who knows how Uther’s mind works,” he says with a snort and a wrinkle of his nose. “I certainly don’t and I wouldn’t want to.”

“Nor do I,” Morgana agrees with a grin. “But let’s hope this is the start of something better.” She picks up the lazing rabbit, scooping it up gently beneath its hindquarters and holding it out. “So, can we try again?”

They spend the next little while practicing the same spell, Merlin casting the countering magic that turns the bunny back into one of expertly carved wood so Morgana can try it again and again, though at the end of the night Morgana insists on letting the rabbit _stay_ a rabbit and asks Merlin to set it free in the woods.

Late night sorcery and bunny rescue take their toll, so when Gaius thumps on Merlin’s door the next morning and calls him to breakfast, Merlin feels as though he hardly slept.  When he realizes just how late it is, he rushes to get moving.  He’s been working very hard at being to Arthur’s quarters early and to have breakfast waiting for when he rouses Arthur. 

This morning, however, he scrambles down the hall with a tray in hand and when he pushes the door open it’s to find Arthur, already dressed and sitting at his table, fingers drumming on the tabletop.  “Late night at the tavern, _Mer_ lin?”  Arthur asks, saying Merlin’s name in that peculiar way that he does that makes it sound like he’s saying something that leaves an odd taste in his mouth.

“No.” Merlin protests. “I was not in the tavern last night.”

Arthur’s eyebrow lifts and Merlin realizes he may have been a little more vehement in his protest than strictly necessary.  “Well then, what was it?  You’ve been on time every morning these past three weeks.”

“Maybe I just overslept?” Merlin suggests as he sets the tray down in front of Arthur and proceeds to fill a goblet with water from the pitcher he drew fresh just before heading to the kitchens.  He may also secretly preen that Arthur has noticed his efforts at promptness.

Arthur just does that questioning eyebrow thing again, ignoring the waiting meal. Merlin squirms under its power.

He sighs. “There was a rabbit,” he finally says, grudgingly.

“A rabbit.” Arthur repeats. It’s not quite a question.

Merlin’s always found that staying truth-adjacent is better than scrambling for some elaborate lie (mostly because he’s not always good at remembering and later sorting out the lies). “Yeah, a rabbit.  There were some children in the lower town that found an injured rabbit. Its leg was hurt so they wanted to bring it to Gaius. I took it and promised to fix it up.”

There’s a smile playing at Arthur’s lips but he doesn’t let it show just yet. “And did you? Fix the rabbit?”

Merlin nods. “Yes. And then last night I took him back out to the woods and let him go.”

Arthur nods and looks down to his breakfast. He’s just picked up a knife to cut the thick slab of spit-roasted ham, when he looks up at Merlin again. “I’m still not clear on why that resulted in your oversleeping this morning.”

Merlin sighs again. He should’ve known Arthur wasn’t going to let it drop that easy.  He shifts and tugs at the hem of his tunic. “Er, well, I may not have told Gaius about the rabbit.  I mean, it was a rabbit.  Gaius probably would’ve wanted me to cook it.”

Arthur cocks his head to the side, his face screwed up in an odd grimace. “Well, why didn’t you? I know you know how to cook rabbits. You’ve done it plenty of times on hunting trips.”

Which is true. Merlin has become somewhat of an expert on skinning, cleaning, spitting and roasting rabbits.  He’d actually had that thought when he commissioned such a placid animal likeness from the woodcarver: that when they finished with it, it might make a good meal. But Morgana had been quite taken with the thing and he didn’t have the heart to deny her request that he let it free.

“They’d given it a name, Arthur,” he says plaintively. “I couldn’t very well kill it after that. What if the kids saw me again and asked me about it?”

Arthur stabs viciously at a large piece of the ham, picks it up with the tip of his knife and stuffs it in his mouth. He grins while chewing. “You could’ve told them it was delicious.”

At Merlin’s affronted squawk Arthur just laughs.

Just for that, Merlin steals one of the pieces of cheese off Arthur’s plate.   He’s popped it in his mouth and is chewing before he realizes that Arthur is staring at him.

Oh, right.  They’re not there yet.   At this point, their friendship is still much more bound by their roles of lord and servant than it will become.  He keeps forgetting this and stepping just beyond the edges of propriety.

“Uh, sorry.” Merlin says after he rushes to swallow. “That piece looked a bit off.”

“A bit off?” Arthur echoes.

“Uhhh, yeah.  Spotty. Didn’t taste right, either. Ugh. Good thing I saved you from eating it. Would’ve spoiled your breakfast.” He hurriedly leaves the table and moves over to the armoire and starts pulling out shirts. “Uh, so what’s on the schedule for today, then?

Thankfully Arthur lets the incident pass, though he keeps shooting odd glances at Merlin now and again as he recites his plans for the day. “Oh,” he concludes, “you’ll need to make sure my armor is polished and ready right away after I’m off the field. We’ve got the Knighting ceremony for Frederick, Vidor, Caradoc, Ethen and Borin tonight.”

Merlin almost drops the stack of shirts he’s holding. “Right,” he says, carefully setting the clothes back on the shelf. “I’d almost forgotten that.” 

He _had_ forgotten.  Tonight is the night that Morgause is going to challenge Arthur.   

It seems too soon for that.  He feels as if there’s something else significant that he’s forgotten about.  Something that happened _after_ the troll but _before_ Morgause.

Of course.  He could smack himself in the forehead for being so forgetful.   The witchfinder.  He’d even spent that particular day in the woods, gathering firewood, just as he had the first time. This time, however, he’d been in such a hurry to get back to the castle (to Arthur) that he hadn’t lollygagged and hadn’t played around with frivolous magic, conjuring a trotting horse in the smoke.  So there’d been no cause for Uther to summon the witchfinder.

He spares a moment to wonder what Uther would’ve done this time, with Ygraine’s urgent plea fresh in his mind.   According to Morgana there’d been no talk of death sentence (or the need for witchfinders)  when a peasant girl was brought forward against accusations of sorcery.  Perhaps, even if Merlin had had the same lapse in judgment, Uther would still have responded in kind.  There’s a part of him – a small part, he has no wish to put Gauis through something so horrific for the sake of his own curiosity – that almost wishes he’d made the same mistake.

Though the witchfinder wasn’t an issue, he still needs to deal with Morgause.  He needs to make plans.  Figure out the best way to handle it. Ideally, if Arthur defeats Morgause – it’s a challenge to the death after all – it will solve a plethora of other problems.  But Merlin already knows that Morgause is a capable fighter, and despite all of Merlin’s teasing the first time around, Arthur will see her as a woman first and an opponent second. 

“Merlin?”

Merlin startles. He got lost in thought and apparently missed something Arthur’s been saying. “Sorry, Sire. What was that?”

Finished with his meal, Arthur pushes away from the table and stands. “Distracted by thoughts of _rabbits_ , Merlin?”

Huh. In that one comment, Merlin realizes that Arthur really doesn’t believe him about the rabbit.  Unfortunately, he’s not sure exactly what Arthur is implying. “No, Sire.  Just thinking about the laundry. Trying to remember if your blue tunic needs washing.”

“Well considering it’s over there on the floor, I’d say so.” He points, and Merlin tracks the direction he’s gesturing. Sure enough, the shirt in question lies in a crumpled ball on the far side of Arthur’s bed.

“I’ll make sure I get it done today, Sire.”

“Good, see that you do.” Arthur nods. “Now come and help me with my armor. Just because those men are being Knighted tonight is no reason for a light day of practice.”

Dutifully Merlin goes over to assist. He can’t help smiling though, because he knows Arthur’s going to make a lesson of the Knights-to-be.  Being granted the honor of Knighthood is no excuse to let them rest on their laurels. Arthur will make them work harder than anyone else and will in turn, work harder than all of them. Arthur is not often vain (not really), but his abilities on the field with sword and mace are ones that he takes great pride in. Rightfully so.

Merlin needs to remind Arthur of that when it comes to Morgause. 

While Merlin threads the leather strap of a vambrace buckle, Arthur suddenly asks, “Are you coming down to the practice field? Or does Gaius need you this morning?”

Startled by the question, Merlin tugs the binding a bit too tight. Arthur jerks his arm away and Merlin mutters, “Sorry,” before reaching out for the arm again. “Um, I don’t know.”

Looking straight ahead, Arthur adds, “I only ask because I was thinking of doing some moving target drills.” He flicks a sideward smirk at Merlin.

“Well in that case,” Merlin rejoins, dropping Arthur’s arm and moving on to the pauldron, “Gaius definitely needs my help.”

That earns him a laugh. “I suppose I can hold off until tomorrow then.” 

Once Merlin has Arthur’s armor readied, he hands over the sword belt. “Well, we’ll see what tomorrow brings, won’t we.” He’s grinning as he says it, but for some reason it causes the smile on Arthur’s lips to falter. 

Arthur accepts the sword with a tight nod. “Right. We will.” He claps Merlin on the arm and with a, “See you later then,” is out of the room.

Merlin stares after him at the open door.  “What was that about?”  Shaking his head, he finishes his tasks in Arthur’s quarters (which, blue shirt aside, really don’t need that much tidying) and then goes to meet with Gaius to get to the rest of his daily chores.

He encounters Arthur later in the day – they’d missed each other when Arthur got done on the practice fields because he was on rounds with Gauis and when Merlin returned to Arthur’s room later to take care of his armor, Arthur was nowhere to be found – passing in the castle hall.

Arthur asks after the state of his armor.

“Polished and laid out for you, Sire.”

When Merlin heads towards the castle entrance rather than back to Arthur’s chambers Arthur stops him. “Where are you going?”

“I have one more errand to run, for Gaius.” He explains.

“More rabbits to rescue?” This time the jibe almost sounds angry.

“No.” He shakes his head emphatically. “I just need to drop off some medicine in the lower town.  I’m sure you heard about the fire at the bowyer last week?”

Arthur nods, immediately contrite. “Yes, of course. They supply the castle with all of our bolts and arrows. I thought everyone was alright?”

It warms Merlin’s heart that Arthur both knows of the fire and that no one was grievously hurt.  This is why he will be a brilliant King. He genuinely cares for all his subjects.  “Yes, but Marcus and his eldest daughter both suffered burns.  When Gaius and I visited yesterday they were almost out of ointment.  Gaius just finished the most recent batch.” Which is true, although Merlin doesn’t actually need to deliver it until tomorrow.

Always putting the welfare of the people of Camelot first, Arthur nods his understanding. “Very well. But don’t be late to the Knighting ceremony,” he instructs.

“Don’t worry,” Merlin says with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be there.  Wouldn’t miss it,” he adds just before dashing off.

In truth, while he does take the opportunity to deliver the ointment, he actually uses the trip for a different purpose. He makes his way back to the castle using the same route that Morgause will take.  It’s less than an hour before the ceremony so he knows the same guards will be on duty. Guards that Morgause will slaughter.  Men with families and lives that he can save.  As he passes by each he mutters spells of protection from harm.

It won’t stop them being injured, but it should turn away the worst of Morgause’s attacks.  Fatal blows may still wound, but if Merlin has anything to say about it, no one will die tonight.

He scampers into the hall, taking his place by Gaius’ side just before the doors to the throne room are closed.  Gaius side-eyes him and he grins sheepishly.  Panting a bit, he starts to explain his late arrival but a sharp elbow to the ribs quiets him.  Uther begins his speech. It’s a good speech; one that praises the men and the values they stand for.  Merlin especially likes the part where he talks about Arthur epitomizing those characteristics.  It’s the truest thing he’s ever heard Uther say.

And then he’s interrupted by the sounds of clashing metal on metal from the outside the room.

Merlin finds himself holding his breath as the doors fly open and a figure in armor strides in. He watches, helpless to do anything, as the challenge is issued and Arthur picks up the gauntlet.

“I accept your challenge.” Arthur says, voice firm and unwavering. “If I'm to face you in combat, do me the courtesy of revealing your identity."

Merlin scowls at the collective gasp that echoes around the room as Morgause removes her helm. “My name is Morgause.” That’s all she says before she turns and walks out just as abruptly as she came in. 

The hall explodes into chaos. Uther calls the room to order, and then summarily brings an end to the event.  His words are abrupt and angry. Immediately after Arthur is corralled out of the now noisy, milling crowd by Uther, with Geoffrey in tow.

Gaius gets approached by several others on Uther’s council, so Merlin steps back into the shadows, putting his back against the wall.   Morgana slips up next to him and says low, near his ear. “You know this woman, don’t you Merlin?  I saw your face. You were expecting her.  Another dream?”

Merlin nods but doesn’t say anything else.

“Who is she?” Morgana whispers urgently. She’s frowning. “She’s somehow familiar to me.”

Damn, Merlin was afraid of that. He casts about for prying ears – spots Gaius still engaged by a councilman and Gwen being chattered at by one of the kitchen help, though she looks intent on getting to Morgana – and then says almost under his breath. “She’s a sorceress.  A Priestess of the Old Religion. One of those that uses magic for the wrong reasons.” He adds an urgent, “If she tries to speak to you, do not trust her.”

Morgana, looking fearful, nods.  She starts to say more but they’re joined by Gwen who appears a little confused at seeing them with their heads together. “Well that was shocking, wasn’t it?” She says by way of greeting.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “Quite the surprise.” 

“I wonder what Arthur’s going to do?” Gwen’s hands flutter around her throat. “Do you think he’ll have to fight that woman?”

“I think that’s what Uther’s trying to figure out right now.” Morgana offers. “Probably has Geoffrey looking into the books to see if there’s any precedent for a woman challenging a man to a duel.” She gives a haughty sniff. “As if women shouldn’t be allowed to hold a sword and couldn’t be the equal of a man.”

Sometimes Merlin forgets that even before the events that twisted her mind and turned her against them, Morgana could still be a little bit bloodthirsty.

“Uther won’t allow it then, will he?”

“He’ll have to,” Merlin tells Gwen. “If he can find no law to disallow it. And you know Arthur. If it would cause him dishonor to back down…”

Both Gwen and Morgana nod knowingly. 

Merlin pushes off the wall. “I’d better go and wait for Arthur. I’m sure he’s going to need to talk.”

Morgana just nods and gives his forearm a quick squeeze, but Gwen gives another of those confused little frowns.  He’s doing it _again_ , he realizes as he pushes his way out of the hall to head for Arthur’s room. He’s forgetting how different things were.  If he’d said, “I’m sure he’s going to need someone to throw things at,” it probably wouldn’t have earned him a second glance.  He _has_ to be more careful.    

Before he gets out the doors, Gaius catches his arm. “Come along, Merlin. Apparently that Morgause left a trail of wounded in her wake.” 

Right. Merlin almost forgot. The last time… well, there’d been no injuries to patch up or bones to set, merely bodies to lay out for the grave.  They make their way to the guard house – after a detour at Gaius’ for his supplies – where all the wounded men have been brought.  There’s just no room in the physician’s chambers for all of them.

Gaius does most of the work, though Merlin steps in to lend a hand when one is needed: mopping up blood so that Gaius can assess damage, holding down flailing bodies to keep them steady as Gaius sews meticulous stitches to close gaping wounds, or keeping an arm straight so Gaius can set a break. 

When they’re done, Merlin’s tunic is spattered with rusty-red spots –the cuffs of the sleeves he’d pushed up are ringed - and even after he washes up in a bucket with a cake of soap, there’s brown under his fingernails. But all the guards are alive and Gaius has high hopes that they’ll stay that way.

“Thank you for your help, Merlin.” Gaius lays a heavy hand on Merlin’s shoulder and squeezes. “You did very well in there.”

“I’m just glad that no one died.” And even though he knows his magic is largely responsible, it’s to Gaius that he feels grateful.

“Agreed, my boy.” He gives Merlin’s shoulder another weak shake. “Come on.  There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Merlin looks at the injured men laid out on their sleeping pallets.  Gaius has given them all tincture of poppy so they should sleep through the night. “You don’t need to stay?”

“No.  One of the men will come and get me if there’s any change, but I’m too old for sitting an all-night vigil.”

“I’d best get to Arthur, then.”

Gaius frowns. “Looking like that? Don’t you want to come back to at least change.”

“Maybe later.  I think…” He doesn’t quite know how to explain it, but he just knows that Arthur needs someone to talk to. “I don’t think Arthur will mind and I suspect he’s going to need help with his armor.” He bluffs a grin. “You know how helpless he can be.”

Gaius doesn’t smile, but he does sigh – fondly, Merlin thinks – and grudgingly nods. “Alright, Merlin. But try not to be too late.  I think we’re going to have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees, hoping Gaius’ words aren’t too prophetic.

He reaches Arthur’s chamber and eases the door open slowly. Arthur is standing across the room, leaning against the wall, staring out the window.  Despite Merlin’s attempts at not disturbing Arthur he turns his head when he hears Merlin enter and then spins around fully, eyes bulging, as he takes in Merlin’s appearance. “What happened?” He takes two steps closer and then stops himself.

“None of it’s mine,” Merlin says – a weak attempt at humor. “I was helping Gaius tend to the guards that Morgause attacked.  Some of them had quite serious wounds.”

Arthur swallows, looking distraught. “How are they?”

“Doing well.  Gaius thinks they’ll all survive.” He gives a tentative smile.

Arthur returns it and looks profoundly relieved. “That’s good to know.”

Merlin looks down at his shirt, tugging self-consciously at his stained sleeves. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have come here like this. I can go and change?”

“No, it’s fine.” Arthur says wearily. “I’m not afraid of a little blood, Merlin.” If it’s meant to sound condescending, it hits somewhere closer to morose. “Help me out of this, will you?” His gloves are off and the cloak is folded over a chair, but otherwise he’s still fully garbed in his armor.

Silence hangs heavy over them as Merlin unbuckles and removes plate pieces and then helps Arthur pull the heavy hauberk and surcoat over his head.  He sets everything on the table and while Arthur paces the room, Merlin takes a seat and starts polishing. Arthur will talk when he’s ready (or Merlin may have to prompt him).

It’s a familiar and comfortable scene, both because Merlin remembers it playing out similar to this, and because this is how so many of Arthur’s difficult moments have been spent.  Their conversation isn’t going to follow the pattern that Merlin remembers though. He had no idea who Morgause was the last time. This time he has an agenda.

The silence starts to feel too heavy.  Merlin’s already finished shining up one vambrace and hammering out a small ding in the other and Arthur still hasn’t said anything. Arthur clearly isn’t going to start this conversation by himself. “What are you going to do?” Merlin asks quietly, rubbing the polishing cloth over a particularly stubborn scuff left by the now smoothed out dent.

“What can I do?” Arthur stops pacing and runs his hands through his hair. “I have to face her. If I refuse, I’m a coward.  But if I kill her, what am I then?”

“You’re a knight who was challenged to fair combat, Arthur.” Merlin sets the cloth down and looks up at him. “Tell me this.  If this were a Knight from, say Lot’s Kingdom, who came to Camelot, attacked your guards, barged into the throne room, interrupted a ceremony to honor your Knights and threw down a challenge to you, would you hesitate in meeting that challenge?”

Arthur scoffs. “You know I wouldn’t, Merlin. It’s just that—“

“Don’t, Arthur.” Merlin interrupts. And he ignores the incredulous look Arthur fixes him with.  He doesn’t care how out of order he’s being. “You cannot think of Morgause as anything other than another Knight.  I know you’ve never faced a woman in combat—“

“You think she might defeat me?”  Arthur says over him (which Merlin is fairly certain is Arthur’s way of dealing with Merlin interrupting him).

“Did I say that?” Merlin shoots back, and once again Arthur rocks back at being spoken to so.  Merlin’s more concerned with fixing this than with propriety though, so he barrels on. “No, Sire, I don’t think she’s capable of defeating you.” He says that with absolute conviction, and then adds, “In a fair fight.  Which she obviously doesn’t want this to be. I think she’s probably counting on the fact that you’ll be put off at the idea of facing her, just _because_ she’s a woman.”

“So what am I to do then?”

“Fight her.” Merlin says simply. “Forget there’s a woman under that armor, and fight her as you would any opponent.”

“It’s not as easy as that, Merlin.”

“Yes, Arthur, it is.”

Arthur goes quiet a moment, gaze drifting back to the window. 

“I need you to take a message to Morgause for me.” Damn, Merlin hoped Arthur wouldn’t go down that path. “If I'm seen to do it, it could be viewed as cowardice. You must speak with her; persuade her to withdraw her challenge.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur steps forward, looming over Merlin who’s still sat at the table with the rest of the pile of to-be-polished armor in front of him.

“You heard,” he says, quickly though, to keep Arthur off guard. He’s risking being told to get out or worse (and he does not relish the idea of a few hours in the stocks).  “I’m not going to do it. She’s not going to withdraw, Arthur.  If she had any intention to withdraw, she’d never have issued the challenge in the first place.”

“Well then find out what she wants,” Arthur insists. “Find out why she’s doing this.”

“Arthur, she’s _not_ going to tell me why she’s here.  She either wants you to withdraw, so she can humiliate you, or she wants to throw you off and to defeat you so that she can then show you mercy and you’ll be beholden to her, _or_ she _does_ want to kill you which would throw Camelot into chaos.  Obviously she’s after something and you’re her key to getting it.”

Arthur stares at him like he’s grown a second head. For a hopeful moment Merlin thinks his words might have done the trick. Then Arthur blows out a huffing breath. “I gave you an order, Merlin.”

Merlin shakes his head. He knows he can out-stubborn Arthur on this one. “And I’m telling you that I’m not following it.

“ _Mer_ lin!” Arthur looks apoplectic. His fists are clenched tight at his sides.

Gulping, Merlin shakes his head again. A modicum of real fear is starting to pool in his belly. Still, he stands his ground. “No, Arthur.  You can order me or yell at me or throw things or put me in the stocks or the dungeon, I’m still not going to do it.”

Arthur’s hand actually goes for the sword on the table. Merlin flinches back, and Arthur sees and seems to realize himself. He looks down at his hand, draws it back to his side and drops his gaze to the floor.

“I can’t have a servant who doesn’t obey me, Merlin.” He says it softly, regretfully.

“And I can’t have you playing into her hands, Arthur.” Merlin is imploring now. “It’s what she wants.  If I go to her on your behalf, she’ll know, Arthur. She’ll _know_ that you’re questioning the fight; she’ll know that she already has you off guard and she’ll know she’s already won. You can’t give her that Arthur. Please. You just can’t.”

Arthur says nothing. Just turns and stalks back over to the window.

“I’ll go.” Merlin tells him, standing, starting for the door. “I’ll finish your armor in the morn—“

“No,” Arthur doesn’t look at him, and he’s speaking barely above a hoarse whisper, but he repeats it. “No.  I’m not asking you…” He gives the barest smile that Merlin can just see the edge of on his moonlight limned profile. “I _mean_ I’m not _ordering_ you to go.  Stay. Finish the armor.”

So Merlin sits back down and focuses on polishing.   And Arthur paces the floor behind him, or stands brooding at the window.   A few times Merlin can feel Arthur behind him, looking over his shoulder, but he says nothing and Merlin knows his limits on being pushed have been reached tonight.

When Merlin is done, and the last link on Arthur’s chain mail is gleaming and even the fastenings on the straps have been shined, Merlin finally sets down the cloth.  He doesn’t know how much time has passed, hours maybe, and when slowly he gets up from the table – shoulders stiff and lower back cramped – he turns to see Arthur watching him from next to the window.

Gaze down, subservient even, he says carefully, “Will there be anything else, Sire?” Normally he’d prepare Arthur’s bed clothes and tidy up the room without asking, but he wants to set things right with Arthur.  He knows he’s shifted things between them in yet another different direction.  Before tonight, this Arthur wasn’t one he could defy so blatantly and argue against so vehemently…  After tonight? He’s not sure where they’ll end up. 

Arthur shakes his head. “No.  Nothing more tonight. You may go.”

Merlin gives a nod and lets the motion carry him down into a semi-bow.  Obeisance seems appropriate right now.   It earns him a half-hearted snort, so he’s hopeful that things are on the way to being okay between them again, and he makes his way out of the room with that thought in mind.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s voice stops him before he’s able to close the door behind him.  Merlin pauses; waits.

“Be on time tomorrow.”

He doesn’t have to turn around to know that there’s the ghost of a smile playing at Arthur’s lips. 

“Yes, Sire. I will be.”

The following morning dawns bright and crisp. There’s a slight chill in the air and Merlin’s glad for his coat when he goes to the pumps to draw water. In the kitchens he ignores the gossip; much of it focuses on Arthur’s challenge by a woman, though a few people are caught up in the sordid antics of a chamber maid and one of the young Knights.  The head cook surprises him by handing over a generous serving of sausages along with pan-seared mushrooms and tomatoes.  Definitely not normal menu items in the Camelot kitchens.  She scowls at him as she does so, but the expression softens when she utters a gruff, “For the Prince.”

Merlin is so accustomed to having a sort of proprietary sense of Arthur that he sometimes forgets how much the people of Camelot care about him and respect him.  The people may obey Uther, but it’s to Arthur they show their love and loyalty.

Merlin doesn’t spout his usual line upon waking Arthur, just draws the curtains and lets the streaming sunlight do the talking for him.

Arthur blinks up at him.  He looks bleary-eyed and groggy and for a moment Merlin thinks Arthur’s going to berate him with his usual early-morning, sleepy sarcasm (more than half the days that Merlin rouses Arthur with an over-hearty sentiment – about the goodness of the morning, or the prospects for the day – Arthur grumbles and pulls the blanket back over his head or calls Merlin an idiot or chucks a pillow at him). Merlin sees the exact moment that Arthur remembers the night before. His mouth hardens into a firm line and he sits up abruptly.

He says nothing to the particularly nice meal that he sits down to; eats perfunctorily.  He dresses quickly, pulls on the padded gambeson and then moves to stand next to the table where his armor is neatly arranged.  He gives a curt nod to Merlin.

Taking it for the cue it is Merlin joins him at the table and lifts the hauberk over Arthur’s head. It’s an odd parody of the quiet between them last night when he helped Arthur remove the armor – each piece taking some of the tension with it – it feels like the opposite happens now and time is flowing backwards.  The thought almost makes Merlin laugh in a desperate, bleak sort of way. When he settles the surcoat and then the coif over Arthur’s head, it musses Arthur’s hair and he finds himself fighting a tender urge to smooth it down.

Merlin does let his hands linger with each buckle that’s fastened and plate piece that’s set into place. His grip is sure on Arthur’s shoulders when he shifts the pauldron and gorget to get them secured. If he can’t offer assurance with his words, then maybe his steady hands and confidence in girding Arthur for combat will do it for him.

“Remember, Arthur,” Merlin says as he tightens the final strap and finally gives in to breaking the silence, “she’s a knight like any other. She may try to remind you that she’s a woman, to use that against you. Don’t let her and don’t show her _any_ mercy.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything to that. He just picks up his sword belt, buckles it on and then tucks his helm under his arm and leads the way out of the room.  Merlin follows dutifully after.

The arena is packed full of spectators and Morgause already stands waiting on the loosely packed dirt in the center of the ground.  Merlin takes up a spot as close to the action as possible.  Gaius joins him.

“How is Arthur?” he asks quietly.

“Um,” Merlin doesn’t really know how to answer that. “Alright, I think.  Quiet this morning.”

Gaius hrmms under his breath. Merlin doesn’t know what to make of that either.

Uther pronounces the start to the combat, with the reminder, “This fight is by the Knight’s rules. And to the death.”  Merlin would roll his eyes at how dramatic that sounds, if Arthur weren’t actually fighting for his life out there. Not that Morgause intends to kill him. No, she wants the victory but only to use it as leverage to get Arthur to come find her.

Before donning his helm, Arthur steps close to Morgause. Merlin can see that he’s speaking, but can’t hear the words.

 _Dammit, Arthur_. Merlin almost curses aloud.  _Don’t let her think she’s gotten to you_.  He wishes he had the Druids ability to communicate with his mind because he’d force those thoughts into to Arthur’s brain. 

But when he takes a closer look, he can see that Arthur’s got a smirk on his face. It’s cocky, arrogant.  Merlin remembers it from the first time he ever met Arthur and got shoved to his knees on the street and then thrown in the dungeons.  Suddenly Merlin has hope for this battle. 

From the way that Morgause spins away from Arthur, the movement abrupt and jerky, Merlin knows that Arthur is the one that got to her, and not the other way ‘round. Still, she’s angry now and she’s a skilled swordswoman.  Merlin knows Arthur would never forgive him, but he’s ready to use magic to turn the tide of this fight if need be.

The first few exchanges are tentative, light, just sword clashing against sword as they test each other.  It doesn’t take long though, for the battle to be joined in earnest.  They parry back and forth a few times, neither gaining the upper hand.  Then Arthur catches her with a vicious slashing down stroke during their next flurry of blows; the tip of his blade scraping her forearm and disarming her.  Her sword drops to the dirt.

Arthur lets up, steps back and gestures for her to retrieve it with a flick of his sword.

 _No_ , Merlin thinks, _don’t show her mercy. Don’t let her pick it up_!  But Arthur does.

“Dammit, Arthur,” this time Merlin lets himself say it aloud, although no louder than a harsh whisper. Gaius looks over at him and Merlin shuts his mouth, chewing on his inner lower lip to keep from blurting out more inappropriately irate comments.  

Morgause retrieves her sword and the fight continues.  Arthur backs her up to the high fence that rings the arena and Merlin has the words to a spell waiting on the tip of his tongue.  When Arthur’s next swing catches the wood, Merlin’s about to loose a spell that will knock Morgause’s sword from her hand, but her attempt to catch him behind the knee with a well-timed kick fails because Arthur swings out with a fist, instead.  _That’s_ the move Arthur held back the first time, because while he could fathom crossing swords with a woman, the idea of actually striking one still wasn’t something he could bring himself to do. Not _then_.

Merlin lets out a bloodthirsty, “Yes!”

The backhanded blow rocks Morgause, knocking her helm completely off and Arthur uses that momentum to bring his sword around in a quick strike that once again strips her of her own sword. She stumbles back and Arthur presses his advantage, forcing her down to her knees and bringing the point of his sword to her throat.

He holds it there, and…

…waits.

“What the hell is he doing?” Merlin blurts.

“Merlin,” Gaius admonishes.

Merlin can see that Morgause is speaking to Arthur, but he can’t make out the words. From this angle he can’t tell if Arthur is responding but she looks urgent and desperate.  Whatever she tells him, it makes Arthur lower his blade and back up.   He removes his helm and looks up at Uther – who merely looks smug, as if he knew this would be the outcome all along – and then around at the crowd – who’ve hushed their cheers - and then speaks loud enough for his voice to carry. “Morgause, do you yield?”

He doesn’t look down at her, but Merlin does. She drops her chin and Merlin can see the seething hatred naked on her face when she hisses out, “Yes. Yes, I yield.”

“Very well,” Arthur accepts graciously. “In exchange for your surrender I grant you safe passage out of Camelot.”

There’s grumbling amongst the crowd, who clearly wanted to see their Prince win by more than a concession of victory. But when Arthur bows his head briefly to his fallen opponent and sheathes his sword, they start to cheer again. Arthur briefly lifts a hand in acknowledgment, turns his back on Morgause and walks off the field.

Merlin hustles to meet him halfway and accepts the helm he hands over and steps into place behind Arthur.

“Gaius, see to her wound.” Arthur instructs. “And then as soon as that’s done, the guards will be waiting to escort her out of the city.”

“Yes, Sire.” Gaius inclines his head.  He looks at Merlin and then at Morgause.  Merlin knows he’s asking a question with the gesture.  Merlin shakes his head minutely and lifts his chin towards Arthur, letting Gaius know that he’s going to follow after. Gaius nods and then makes his way over to Morgause, who is levering herself off the ground with the aid of her sword. She looks addled.  Merlin wonders if that blow to the face might’ve knocked her a little silly. _Good_ , he thinks, viciously.

They’re stopped on the way back to Arthur’s quarters by Uther with Morgana (and by extension, Gwen) in tow. He congratulates Arthur on a well-earned victory, clapping him on the shoulder. “I knew you’d win, Arthur.  To think that a woman could best my son in combat.” He laughs.

Behind him, Morgana glowers.  She catches Merlin’s eye and since he’s stood behind Arthur’s shoulder and out of sight of the King, he gives a little eye-roll.  It has the desired effect: Morgana’s frown lifts and she raises a hand to her mouth to cover her grin.

Oblivious, Uther asks, “What did she say to you when you had your sword to her throat?”

“Nothing, really. She just asked for mercy.” Arthur replies, and there’s a flatness to his tone that tells Merlin that he’s lying.

“Well you were kind to grant it,” Uther allows. “I’ve matters to attend to, but join me for dinner, will you?”

Arthur nods. “Of course, Father.”  Uther slaps his shoulder once again and then walks off. 

Morgana stays behind. “Well fought, Arthur.”

He frowns slightly but says, “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Morgana goes on, “you were weak on your right flank. Lucky she didn’t catch on.” She smiles, looking quite smug. Behind her, Gwen covers a giggle with an all-to-obvious cough.

Predictably, Arthur scowls. “I was not weak on my right flank.”

“Of course not,” Morgana pats his arm in a thoroughly condescending manner, and then walks by wearing an utterly impish grin.  Gwen follows her, but slows enough to smile brightly at Arthur. “I’m glad you won.”

“Thank you, _Gwen_.” Arthur answers, raising his voice so that Morgana can hear him.  A titter of laughter is the only reply.

With an aggrieved sigh, Arthur tugs Merlin down the hall a few paces until they’re out of earshot of Morgana’s giggling and then leads the rest of the way back to his chambers.

When they reach Arthur’s room Merlin sets the helm on the table and Arthur moves to stand next to it so Merlin can start on his armor.  “It _was_ well fought, Arthur.”

Arthur sniffs. “What do you know of combat, Merlin?”

Tugging Arthur’s sword belt free with a little more force than necessary, Merlin grumbles, “I know more than you give me credit for. She could’ve had you, you know. Up against that fence. If you’d let yourself think of her as a woman and not an opponent, you’d never have given her that back hand and she could’ve got you down.”

Arthur’s head drops after Merlin lifts the gorget away. “At the time, I didn’t think twice about it.” He turns enough that he can see Merlin in his periphery. “That was thanks to you, Merlin.  Loath as I am to admit it,” he says mock-grudgingly, “your advice last night was spot on.  Once I put it out of my head that she was a girl and focused on her as just another Knight, I felt no hesitation. No doubt.”

Merlin never knows what to say when Arthur talks to him like this.  So he settles on their default: humor. “Yeah, well I’m glad you were smart enough to listen.”

“I’m glad you were smart enough to speak up,” Arthur adds.  Then he turns enough to fix Merlin with a look that freezes him in place. “But if you ever defy me like that again, you’ll be the one facing me in that arena.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin gives an obviously nervous gulp.  Not that he’s actually nervous. It’s just the easiest way to swallow down the smile fighting its way across his face.

“What did you say to her, by the way? Before the fight started. She looked really angry.”

Arthur huffs out a laugh and from the angle Merlin’s standing – behind Arthur’s right shoulder so he can work loose the straps of the pauldron – he can see a faint blush spread across Arthur’s cheek and redden his ear. “I told her that if she wanted to save face, she could concede the match to me then and there. That there would be no shame in it.”

Merlin laughs.  Arthur’s arrogance must’ve irked Morgause to no end.

“So, what did she say to you? Morgause? After you’d won?”

“You heard what I told my father.”

“Well yeah. I heard you lie to your father.”

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“ _Ar_ thur,” Merlin replies in a matching tone. “I know there was more to it.”

Arthur blows out an aggrieved sigh that unsettles his sweat-damp fringe. “Fine.  She told me that if I let her live and came to her afterwards, she would tell me about my mother.” He frowns. “She looked quite puzzled when I told her that I knew everything I needed to know about her.”

“What did she say then?”

“She pressed on. Told me that she knew my mother. That she knew I was…” He takes a deep breath. “That I was born of magic.”

Merlin waits to lift the chain pieces over Arthur’s head before he responds. “I’ll bet that she was quite surprised when you told her you knew that as well.”

“I think you were right about her, Merlin.  She wanted something from me, and was willing to use any method she could to get it.”

Arranging the chain coif on the table, he doesn’t look at Arthur as he asks, “Then why did you let her live?”

“You’d have had me kill her, Merlin?”

He sounds disbelieving, so Merlin looks up to meet his eyes. “Yes.”

Arthur frowns.  “That doesn’t sound like you, Merlin.” He pokes at Merlin’s arm with his knuckles. “You stayed up late the other night to save the life of a rabbit.”

Merlin cocks his head to the side. “So you believe me about the rabbit, then? I thought you didn’t.”

“I never said I didn’t and don’t change the subject, Merlin.”

Grumbling about Arthur not falling for his misdirection, Merlin just lifts his shoulders up and lets them drop. “As a matter of course, I’m not fond of killing. You know that Arthur. It’s just… there’s something about Morgause. I have a bad feeling we’ve not seen the last of her.”

“Well, she’s welcome to come back and challenge me again, though I doubt she’ll do so. Perhaps we’ll never know the true reason for her doing so in the first place.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin agrees, though he just knows Morgause isn’t finished with Arthur or Camelot. This feels like the first true unknown that Merlin’s faced since coming back. Even some of the other events that he’s affected haven’t truly seemed to veer too far from their set paths, at least not yet (which is not to say they won’t – after all, at this point in his previous run through, Morgana still hadn’t become corrupted).  He needs to be prepared for anything.

~~~~~~~~

Several days after Arthur’s combat with Morgause Merlin is reminded of yet another responsibility he has.  He’s following Gaius through the market in the lower town, visiting a few of Gaius’ favorite herbalists and apothecaries so he can restock (though he won’t admit it, he also uses the time to catch up on local gossip). He’s chatting with a man called Bert who sells produce (who Merlin doesn’t particularly care for, as he’s always been far too willing to supply the local children with over-ripe fruit when Merlin finds himself in the stocks).  Merlin isn’t paying too much attention to the conversation, distracted by a silversmith across the way that he’s never seen before, until he hears the merchant mention the word ‘dragon’.

“Did you say a dragon?” he tunes in to hear Gaius ask.

The man laughs, deep and hearty. “Yeah.  My cousin said that’s what the man told her. She said he was raving!  Of course he was well in his cups when this happened.”

Gaius laughs, but shoots a furtive narrowed glance at Merlin. “I suspect this man probably had enough ale in him to see lots of other unreal creatures. I’m surprised he wasn’t claiming to have seen pixies and unicorns as well.”

Bert guffaws.

Gaius lifts his bundle of herbs, “Well, I’d best be getting these back so I can prepare them before they spoil. Be sure and let me know how Marta’s eyes clear up.”

“I’ll do that, Gaius. Thanks for the tonic.”

Merlin belatedly remembers that Gaius had stopped to talk to Bert to deliver a vial of eye drops for Bert’s wife. 

“Come along, Merlin.”

Gaius doesn’t say anything about the conversation with Bert until they’re almost back to his room (and chances of being overheard are much less).

“Merlin,” he says in a conversational tone that Merlin knows means trouble, “you wouldn’t know anything about talk of a dragon, would you?”

“Me?” Merlin feigns innocence and keeps working at sorting and shelving their newly gotten supplies. “No Gaius. I’ve no idea why a drunkard thought he saw a dragon.  Though I’m sure we’ve heard stranger from some of the Knights at the Rising Sun after they’ve collected their pay.  It was probably just his imagination combined with the drink. I suspect he just saw a really large bird.”  He hates lying to Gaius, but he hasn’t yet told Gaius that he freed the dragon beneath the keep. Plus, the last time he suggested seeking out the egg Gaius had been strongly opposed to the idea.

Fortunately, aside from a glower and a speculative hum, Gaius adds nothing further on the matter and puts Merlin to work grinding some of his newly acquired fresh herbs into paste. 

Merlin knows that Kilgharrah let himself be seen as a message to Merlin.  Merlin promised to bring the dragon egg to him, and he’s not kept that promise.  Though it’s not as if he’s had the time.  However, he knows he can’t delay any longer.   Despite the fact that this Kilgharrah doesn’t feel the same, not yet, Merlin considers the dragon a dear friend. He can’t forget the very last time he saw Kilgharrah… willing to come to his call, letting himself be a beast of burden despite his own deteriorating condition. To say nothing of the way he’d tried to offer Merlin comfort and hope when all Merlin could feel was despair and loss.

“Gaius,” Merlin asks, much later, when they’re sitting down to a dinner of hearty vegetable stew (also a result of their trip to the market), “I’ve been thinking of visiting my Mother, in Ealdor.  Do you think you’d mind my being gone,” he tries to calculate the time he’ll need to first retrieve the parts of the key, and then fetch the egg and finally take the egg to Balinor, “a couple of weeks?”

Gaius looks surprised. “Well no, I wouldn’t mind Merlin. And I’m sure Hunith would enjoy the visit. But what of Arthur? You know he can hardly stand to have you away for any length of time.”

“Well, that’s because he always thinks I’m in the tavern.” He fixes Gaius with a pointed glare.

Gaius is utterly immune to it. Not an iota of guilt crosses his face.

Blowing out an exasperated breath, Merlin just waves away Gaius’ concern. “Don’t worry about Arthur. I’ll explain it to him. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

What he tells Arthur is, “I’ve received word that my Mother has taken ill. She’s alright, but she’s alone, you know, and it’s got to be hard on her.  I was hoping that I might go and uh…” He trails off, feeling awful. If he hates lying to Gaius, lying to Arthur is worse tenfold.  Gaius, at least, has Merlin’s biggest truth, but _everything_ he has with Arthur is surrounded by lies.

Of course Arthur understands.

“You must go to her then.” Arthur insists with a curt nod.

“It’s just for a visit,” Merlin hurries to reassure him, because Arthur looks like he’s trying his hardest to not react, which means he’s bottling something pretty strong. “Just to help her get back on her feet. I’m sure I’ll be back in no time at all.” He grins. “You probably won’t even notice I’m gone, Arthur.”

Some expression finally shows itself on Arthur’s face, but Merlin doesn’t recognize it. “I’m sure I’ll notice, Merlin.” He takes a deep breath and then suddenly he’s smirking and he swings out to punch Merlin in the upper arm. “I’ll have peaceable mornings without your annoying voice waking me.”

“Oww.” Merlin rubs at his bicep with exaggeration. The punch didn’t hurt, not really, but despite the playful smile and humor, none of what Arthur’s expressing with his face and his words is matched by his eyes.  They’re a flat, storm cloud grey.

“When do you leave?”

“I was hoping tomorrow? Unless that’s too soon? I could wait a day; perhaps find someone to take over my duties for a short time?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Tomorrow’s fine, Merlin. Don’t keep your Mother waiting. I’ll manage without you until I can get one of the other servant’s to fill in.”

Wanting to offer Arthur something thoughtful for his kindness (especially as the reason for it is based on a lie) he says, “I’ll bring your breakfast, before I go.”

Arthur groans. “And here I thought I’d be spared your unnatural cheer tomorrow morning.” He laughs and this time it’s genuine, and he bumps his shoulder into Merlin’s.  “Come on. I’ve got a new mace that I want to break in…” he grins, viciously.

Groaning, Merlin follows him.

Later, a somewhat bruised and battered Merlin (Arthur really wasn’t too hard on him, and he was wearing armor and had a shield, but still… he’d deflected a few blows quite poorly and he’s paying for it now) sneaks down to the vaults beneath Camelot.  The last time he’d had to steal the key from Arthur, but that had been as much to get in, as to not reveal his magic to Borden.

This time he has no such limitations, so it’s the work of just a few minutes to avoid the guard, unlock the gate to the vaults with a quick spell, find the piece of the Triskelion of Ashkanar and sneak back out with no one the wiser.  

He’s true to his word to Arthur. He’s up early the next morning to pack up his things and he uses his trip to the kitchens to not only gather Arthur’s meal, but also several days of supplies for himself.   In Arthur’s room, he keeps to his normal routine and sets the tray on table and then draws the curtains.

“Rise and shine,” he chirps with excessive cheeriness.

Arthur rolls to his side, peeks one eye open at Merlin and then closes it and draws a pillow over his head.

“Oh no. I’m not leaving until you’re at least awake, Arthur.  Otherwise you’ll sleep the day away.” He goes over to the bed and starts tugging on the pillow.

“Does that mean,” Arthur’s voice is muffled through the down stuffing, but Merlin can still make out what he’s saying, “that if I get up, you’ll leave.”

Merlin gives a sharp tug as he says, “Yes!”

Arthur lets go of the pillow.

Merlin stumbles back, catches a heel on the rug and ends up on his backside on the floor. He still has the pillow at least, so he flips it under his head and lies down fully. “Thanks for that.”

Arthur, who has crawled to the side of his bed, peers over the edge and down at Merlin.  He looks exceedingly self-satisfied.  “You’re welcome. Now go on, get on your way.  And say hello to your Mother for me.”

A ridiculous grin spreads across Merlin’s mouth and he can’t contain it. He clambers to his feet. “I’ll do that, Sire. Thank you.”  He heads for the door and then realizes he still has the pillow.  Unable to resist, he throws it at Arthur, who has just shifted his feet off the bed and onto the floor. It catches him in the back of the head.

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“Sorry, Sire.” He hurries for the door. “Just wanted to put that back.”  He slips out and tugs the door closed behind him and feels something thump against it just as it latches. 

Proficient as he is at quickly saddling and packing a horse (he’s done it enough times for Arthur that he’s got quite a pattern to it) it’s not very much longer before Merlin is on the road. As he passes under the gates out of the castle’s square he feels an urge to lift a hand and wave.  Then he scoffs at himself – it’s not as if Arthur is watching him go.

He sets out at a ground-eating canter, heading a few miles in the direction of Ealdor and then he veers northwest towards his actual destination. This is the part of his journey he’s most concerned about: completing the key. He knows, vaguely, where Borden is (the man was nothing but a braggart and had reminisced quite fondly about how and when he’d acquired each piece of the Triskelion).  And he knows that by now Borden has the first part of the key.

The second part is held by the Druids in the Forest of Essetir though and at least he knows just where to find them.  It’s less than half a days’ ride to get to the forest and the cave where the Druids camp. Both Merlin and his horse are fresh, and the day is cool but sunny and Merlin makes very good time getting there.

He knows that they’re aware of him as soon as he dismounts outside the cave.

* _Hello?*_ Merlin’s none too practiced on the Druid’s mind speech, but he wants to put them at ease as quickly as he can. He waits just inside the ingress and tries again. _*Hello. Can anyone hear me?*_

 _*Welcome, Emrys.*_ Merlin recognizes the voice that suddenly sounds in his head. It’s the Druid Iseldir.  Merlin was never fully clear on this, but he views Iseldir as some kind of leader amongst the Druid people.  He’s at least the representative who’s most often spoken with Merlin.

He waits, but there’s nothing else to follow, so Merlin heads deeper into the recesses of the cavern until he finds himself in a space that’s clearly inhabited.  Men and women seem to suddenly come from nowhere, circling and surrounding him.  There’s a sudden influx of voices clamoring in his mind. _*Emrys. You honor us.* *Greetings, Emrys* *Welcome, Emrys*_  

“Uh, hello.” He says aloud, because all the noise in his head makes it hard to focus.  He knows that Druids are naturally good at managing this silent form of communication, and he did spend time with their people after Arthur was gone, but he’s never quite mastered their ability to keep all the different voices sorted.

Iseldir steps forward and lifts a hand.  Suddenly all the voices go silent and the people surrounding him step back, giving him his space. “Greetings, Emrys. What is it that brings you to us?”

“You don’t know why I’ve come?” Merlin’s used to the Druids knowing why he’s there before he even knows himself half the time. 

Iseldir shakes his head. “No, Emrys.” He frowns. “Recently things that were known to us have become… unclear.  Some of our best seers puzzle over what has happened.” He eyes Merlin shrewdly. “But you know, don’t you?  I can sense that there is something different about you.”

Merlin swallows.  The Druids were among those who provided much of the knowledge of Merlin and Arthur’s destiny through their glimpses of what was to come.  If those visions are now clouded, does that means he’s on his way to making the changes necessary to save Arthur and his future? He can only hope so.  It certainly tells him that the future is not writ, no matter how often he’s been told otherwise.

“I do know,” Merlin admits. “I know that despite what we think destiny has in store for us, we can change it. We can make things right.”  He lifts his chin against the whispers and low murmurs he hears from the Druids.

“Emrys,” Iseldir says sadly, “to change ones destiny… it is not possible.  Destiny is as sure as the stars.”

“I have seen stars fall, Iseldir.” Merlin replies bitterly. “Do not tell me that they are a constant.” He stands taller. “I will see this done.  Please do not stand in my way.” He relaxes then, and sighs. “You know I look upon your people as friends and that I encourage Prince Arthur to do the same.  I still wish for the same goal that we all wish for: to see magic returned to the world to see the time of Albion brought forth.” 

“This is what we hope for, Emrys.” Iseldir agrees but then holds up a cautioning hand. “You must understand, though, that whatever it is that you do now, this unknown and uncharted path you follow… you follow it alone.”

Merlin nods. “I know. And I’m prepared for that.”

Iseldir looks like he might say more, even opens his mouth to do so, but then he must change his mind.  He inclines his head. “As you say, Emrys. What is it you seek from us now?”

“The Triskelion of Ashkanar.”

“We have but one piece,” Iseldir frowns.

“I know,” Merlin fishes out the piece he already has. “And I have the second, as well as knowledge of the location of the third.”

“So you mean to open Ashkanar’s tomb then?”

“There is a dragon’s egg inside, Iseldir. I must retrieve it.”

“And there is nothing we can say that will convince you otherwise?” Iseldir asks, though he looks like he knows it’s a fruitless question.

Merlin doesn’t want things to play out like this. He’s always been friends with the Druids and doesn’t want that to change. “I’m sorry,” Merlin says, and he genuinely is, “but this is one of the things I must do.  Will you help me?”

A long moment of silence passes and during that time Merlin tries not to fidget or think about what he’ll do if the Druids refuse him (he’s never been too sure just how much of what they can hear or see that goes on in his mind).

Finally Iseldir nods to someone behind Merlin, and by the time he turns there’s a young woman standing in front of him holding out a wooden box.  Merlin opens it and inside is the piece of the triskelion. He picks it up and fits the broken ends of the two pieces together. They fuse with a brief, but bright fission of light at the seam.   He puts the solid piece back in his pack.

“Thank you, Iseldir.” He turns and addresses all those in the cave. _*Thank you, my friends.*_

Several of the people nod, and there are a few smiles, but most just turn away and go back to whatever they were doing before Merlin arrived.  He recognizes a dismissal when he sees it.  To his surprise, Iseldir follows him as he makes his way back out of the cave.  At the cave’s mouth, Merlin stops at a hand on his arm.

“Emrys, I sense your intentions are good.  That is why I saw no harm in giving you the piece of the key to Ashkanar, but be cautious—“

Merlin nods. “I know.  The key is also part of a trap.”

Iseldir smiles and it’s not a very friendly expression. “That is not what I wanted to warn you about.  You already know what awaits you at the tomb.  As, you apparently know of other things yet to come.  Be wary of this knowledge, Emrys, and do not seek to trust it.  Once you have set your foot off the path laid out before you by destiny, the road that awaits is ever-changing and unknown.”

“I will be cautious, Iseldir.”

Iseldir backs away, nodding an acknowledgement. _*You carry our fate and the fate of these lands with you, Emrys.*_

Merlin waits until he’s remounted and a few minutes canter away before he mutters, “Nothing new there, then.”

By the time night falls Merlin’s made good time.  He’s heading into Cenred’s kingdom, to a small village where Borden claimed to have spent the better part of six years researching the location of the second piece.   He makes camp a goodly distance from the road.  Bandits and cutthroats are not uncommon around here, to say nothing of Cenred’s patrols. 

In his old life, after Arthur was gone, Merlin travelled quite a bit. Out of necessity – since a lone man on horseback looked like an easy target to a small band of thieves and Merlin really didn’t want to have to use magic against someone unless he absolutely had to - he taught himself how to remain inconspicuous and to go unnoticed through the woods.  Some of it _is_ magic, but for the most part it’s practical knowledge of forestry and survival.

Tying up his horse, it occurs to Merlin suddenly that with so much happening at Camelot, he and Arthur haven’t been hunting since he’s been ‘back’.   He thinks it might surprise Arthur just how competent a woodsman he’s become.   He decides, as he’s setting up a small campfire (this is where magic comes in to play: he uses a spell to dissipate the smoke so it won’t be seen from a distance) that he needs to harangue Arthur into taking a few days to get away from the castle.

Despite how far his camp is from the road, Merlin’s careful to remove any sign of his passing through the leaf litter, and once he’s managed a simple dinner (relying on his stores from Camelot’s kitchens, though he’ll have to either do some hunting or start being more frugal with that until he gets to a town where he can resupply) he banks the coals of his fire to burn low and sets his bedroll close by for the meager heat it will put off.

His caution proves well founded: he’s just drifting off when he hears noises in the brush – distant still, but growing closer.  At first it’s just snapping branches and rustling leaves and the occasional jangling of tack (at least two people, on horseback) but soon enough he can hear voices.  Merlin didn’t bring a sword, has nothing larger than a knife (for practical purposes, not defense) but he rolls to his feet and his hand unerringly finds the small blade on his nearby saddle.

“I’m telling you,” one of the voices carries well enough that he can finally make out words, “I smelled a campfire.”

“I see no firelight,” a second voice – softer, harder to make out - replies.  “Perhaps you caught the scent on the wind.”

“No,” the first voice disagrees, and there’s something vaguely familiar about it to Merlin. “It was too sharp.  Too fresh.  If there’s not a fire around here now, there was one recently.”

“We saw no tracks.”

“It’s too dark to see tracks.”

Merlin looks down to the remains of his fire.   A few embers still glow deep red, but most of it has smoldered to ash.  He silently drags a boot through the dirt that he’d piled nearby (he keeps it handy for just this purpose – nothing puts out a fire faster) and kicks some over the coals.

Unfortunately he must’ve scraped some leaves or dry grass with the dirt, because something catches on one of the still-red embers and flares with a flit of flame.  It’s consumed quickly enough, but one of the men in the woods must have a hawk’s vision.

“There!” It’s the first voice again. “I just saw firelight. Over there. Let’s go.” They’re close now, and will be on Merlin in moments.

 _Damn_. Merlin steps away from the campfire and into the shadow of the trees. He doesn’t have time to gather his gear and his horse and get away, so he’ll have to just stand his ground.  He holds out the knife in a defensive posture – not that he’ll use it, but the men don’t need to know that. It’s mostly bravado.  Sometimes a single traveler or a pair might be discouraged if the person they’re approaching looks like he’s willing to defend himself.

There’s enough light from a waxing gibbous moon that he sees the men come through the trees. They’ve dismounted and lead their horses. 

“That’s close enough,” Merlin calls out from the darkness.

He sees the man in front falter, his head lifting as he glances around trying to find Merlin in the dark.  Not that it gives him any advantage; Merlin can’t make out much more of the man than the fact that he’s a big fellow and also that he’s got a sword in his hand that reflects the light.

“We mean you no harm,” the large man says. “We just saw your fire.”

Merlin stays where he’s at. “That sword your holding says otherwise.”

The man looks down at it. “Yeah, sorry. I can see how that wouldn’t look to friendly. Here.” He makes a show of putting the sword back in its scabbard. “Does that help?”

“There are two of you,” Merlin says. “How do I know your partner doesn’t have his own sword at the ready?”

“He’s coming ‘round.” The man says. “So you can see.”

“Slowly,” Merlin cautions.

A second man comes forward, stepping out from behind the larger man’s side.  Moonlight hits them both as they move to stand abreast of each other and Merlin gasps.

“Lancelot? Percival?”

Lancelot, because that’s who is standing across the small clearing staring back at him in disbelief, says, “Merlin?”

All thought of caution thrown to the wind, Merlin rushes forward and Lancelot meets him halfway.  He catches Lancelot up in a hug, clapping him on the back eagerly. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

And he almost can’t.  In his mind he knew that Lancelot was out there, somewhere, but he’d never expected to just come across him like this.  And this reunion (Lancelot is nearly squeezing the life out of him in his exuberance, and sort of lifting him off the ground onto his toes) – _this_ is what he was missing when Morgana brought Lancelot back from the dead as a shade. The difference between the two reunions is night and day and he hugs just a little tighter.

“What’re you doing here, Merlin?”

Merlin laughs against Lancelot’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, my friend.”

When they pull back Lancelot steps aside and gestures to Percival, who is eying him very strangely. “Merlin, this is Percival…” he looks back to Merlin, brows falling inward in confusion.

Merlin finally realizes his mistake. He called Percival by name, but the Merlin of _this_ time doesn’t know Percival yet.  He hadn’t actually known that Lancelot even knew Percival yet either.

“Nice to meet you, Merlin.” Percival says, holding out an arm for Merlin to clasp and shake. “Uhh, how did you know my name?”

Merlin exchanges a look with Lancelot. “He told me.” Merlin says at the same moment that Lancelot answers, “I told him about you.”

Lancelot nods when he realizes they’ve both said the same thing, which encourages Merlin to add.

“A letter.”

“Right,” Lancelot agrees. “I sent Merlin a letter and mentioned you in it.” He nods at Percival. “When we were back in Cotham, and that messenger was passing through on his way to Camelot. You remember?”

Percival nods and looks profoundly relieved that there’s a reasonable explanation for things.

“Yes,” Merlin carries on with the story they’re crafting, “he mentioned he was in the company of a man called Percival who was a big fellow, but quite kind, and didn’t who often wear shirtsleeves.” He gives a quick splay of his fingers to Percival’s attire. “So I knew that must be you.”

This makes Percival laugh and he pushes at Lancelot’s shoulder. “Mentioned all of my best qualities.”

Lancelot laughs and ducks away, but as he leans forward he fixes Merlin with a look that – even by moonlight – is easy to read as ‘we’ll talk later’.  Merlin quickly bobs his head in agreement.

“Would you mind if we got your fire going again, Merlin?” Lancelot asks. “We’ve been on the road for a while and could do with a hot meal.”

“Of course. Why don’t I take care of that while you two take care of your horses.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Mine’s tethered just a few yards that way.”

Merlin builds the fire up again and shares out some of his provisions. “What are you doing out here?” Merlin asks as soon as they’re all settled and have eaten. “And sneaking up on stranger’s camps? What if I’d been a group of bandits?”

Lancelot and Percival exchange a grin. “Well, we were kind of hoping you were.” Percival explains.  “We’ve been keeping to the borders of Cendred’s lands, dealing with any unsavory types we come across.”

“I’m sorry,” Merlin says, “I don’t quite follow. You were _hoping_ I was a bandit?”

Percival nods. “Well, trying to suss out if you were, really. See, if we come across folk camped out and they’re just good folk trying to pass through to safer lands, they’re likely to invite us to share their fire in exchange for some protection, which we’re happy to give.” He pauses to ensure Merlin’s following along – and he is, so he indicates this and Percival continues. “However, if they’re bandits or Cenred’s men, we’ve found that approaching their camps the same way either they think we’re out to join them, or that we’ll be easy pickings once we’re sat at their fire. We’re happy to prove them wrong.” He elbows Lancelot.

“There are rumors out of Cenred’s keep that he’s got some kind of new advisor.” Lancelot narrows his eyes. “A sorceress.  It’s brought out the worst sort of men and they’re flocking to Cenred’s banner.”

Merlin gives a slight nod at that, letting Lancelot know that it’s true. It must be Morgause. Even without Morgana as her ally, she must still plan to use Cenred in some way against Camelot.

“Not to mention increased patrols by Cenred’s men.” Percival adds. “They’re detaining and capturing all sorts of folk passing through here. We’re doing our best to prevent that.” He grins, and with the firelight’s reflection dancing in his eyes it’s a feral and vicious expression.  It’s odd to see Percival so bloodthirsty.  Except that Merlin remembers then that Cenred’s army killed Percival’s family.

He returns the toothy smile. “So you’re just doing your part to keep the borders safe?  And if a few of Cenred’s men get in the way… well, all the better then?”

“That’s exactly it.” Percival confirms.

“You’ve been busy in the few weeks since I last saw you,” he tells Lancelot.  And immediately regrets the comment because he remembers _why_ Lancelot didn’t continue on with them. 

His mouth thins slightly, but otherwise Lancelot just shrugs. “So tell me, Merlin, what brings you this far into Cenred’s kingdom?” He asks.  “And, most notably, without Arthur.”

“I’m on a bit of a quest of my own.” Merlin considers how much he can share with Percival listening.  There’s enough of the truth he can dole out without revealing his own secret.  “It’s sort of a three-fold quest.  First, I need to track down the pieces of a key. I had the first and have just obtained the second, but the third is held by a man who I know only by name and a vague of idea of where to find him.”

“What’s the man’s name?” Percival asks. “We’ve been through many towns these past few weeks; perhaps we’ve met him?”

“Julius Borden.”

Percival cocks his head a moment as he considers, then shakes it side to side. “No, sorry. Don’t recognize it.”

“Once you find this man and get the part of this key, what next?” Lancelot asks.

“Then it’s off to a hidden tower to retrieve a dragon’s egg.”

Both Lancelot and Percival physically shift back. “A real dragon’s egg?” Percival whistles out a breath when Merlin nods.

Shaking his head, Lancelot follows up with, “Do I want to know what you’re planning to do with a dragon’s egg?’

“Taking it to a Dragonlord,” Merlin says and drops his gaze to add, “who also happens to be my father.” He looks up to see Percival shooting a questioning look at Lancelot.

“Your father, Merlin? I didn’t know you knew him.”

“I don’t.  I’ve never met him.” Before Lancelot can ask he hurries to add, “But I know of him now. Gaius told me his real name and where I might find him.”

Lancelot reaches over to put a hand on Merlin’s forearm and gives a quick squeeze. “I’m glad you’ll get the chance to meet him, Merlin.  Though I must say I’m surprised you’re undertaking all this without Arthur.” There’s just the faintest tightening around Lancelot’s eyes when he mentions the Prince. “He gave you leave for such a journey?”

Merlin ducks his head again. “Err, well, not exactly. He thinks I’m visiting my ailing mother.” At least he can blame the heat of the fire for the color on his cheeks.

“I expect he’ll be missing you before too long. He’s a good man,” Lancelot acknowledges, “But he seems a bit lost without you to boss around.” He softens that with a soft chuckle.

With a huff of laughter of his own, Merlin nods. “I’m hoping this won’t take me more than a fortnight. I dread to think what the state of his room will be by the time I get back.”

“Is this something we can help with, Merlin?” Percival asks.  “I don’t like the idea of you travelling out here alone. Especially with as dangerous as these lands have been lately.” At least he doesn’t state outright that he doesn’t think Merlin looks like he can take care of himself.

Merlin does not smile and does not look at Lancelot (who knows how ridiculous that thought is).  Instead he thinks about it and decides that even though it might be a bit more difficult with Percival around he’d be grateful for the company. “I’d like that, yeah.  As long as you both don’t mind? I mean, I don’t want to keep you from harrying the ranks of Cenred’s patrols.”

Percival waves that away. “I think they’re getting wind of us. It’s been two days since we’ve last come across any of them.  I think a few days to let them regroup would do us good.”

Lancelot nods. “He’s right, Merlin. We’d be happy to help you out.”

“Then I’m grateful for the company.  And I’ll offer to take first watch if you’d both like to get some rest?” He holds out his hands to stop any protests. “I’ve had a chance to rest up a bit already. I’m not likely to fall asleep just yet.” 

“Sounds good to me,” Percival agrees.

Merlin scoots back to put his back against a tree.   Both Percival and Lancelot set out their bedrolls and settle in.   It’s not too long before Percival is asleep – if his soft snoring is to be believed – and Lancelot rolls up to his side to look at Merlin.

“You should sleep,” Merlin tells him softly.  He’s hoping for a bit more time to think about what to tell Lancelot. Besides Gaius, Lancelot is one of the few people he’s ever been able to be wholly honest with. And like Gaius, he doesn’t want to lie to Lancelot if he doesn’t have to.

“I will, soon.” He hesitates a moment. “How is… How is Gwen?”

Another conversation Merlin doesn’t want to have.  He knows that Arthur and Guinevere are destined but he also cares deeply for Lancelot and doesn’t want to see his friend hurt.  “She’s well, Lancelot.  She was understandably upset to wake up and find you gone after the rescue from Hengist’s keep though.”

Lancelot looks away, “It was the right thing to do, Merlin. I could see that.  Are she and Arthur…?” He trails off like he can’t bring himself to ask.

“No,” Merlin has to admit. “Not yet.  It’s… she’s just a servant, you know.  And Arthur is a Prince.  They’re friends, of course.  For now that’s all it can be.”

“He’ll wait for her, though.” Lancelot sighs. “I could see that in him.  He’ll wait until things can be acknowledged between them.” He gives a quick, jerky nod. “He’ll be good for her.”

“So would you,” Merlin can’t help but argue.  He doesn’t want to change Arthur’s destiny – he truly doesn’t – but Lancelot is his closest friend and he knows that if Lancelot had been able to stay in Camelot, the seed of feelings burgeoning between he and Gwen would have fully blossomed. He saw how broken her heart was after Hengist’s keep.

“She deserves better,” Lancelot says firmly and when Merlin opens his mouth to argue, Lancelot shakes his head. “Enough of that,” he almost snaps.  He looks over at Percival, to confirm his raised voice hasn’t woken him, and then whispers. “Merlin, I have to know, how did you recognize Percival?”

Shifting down a little further, letting his boots slide across the dirt almost to the edge of the campfire, Merlin sighs.   He can’t tell Lancelot of the future, no matter how badly he doesn’t want to lie. “It’s something that happens sometimes, with my magic,” Merlin explains. “I sometimes have these dreams, about what’s going to happen. I see people or events…” he spreads his hands. “I don’t know how to explain it. I just recognized Percival. I’ve seen him before in a dream.”

Lancelot thinks on that for a moment, letting a silence fall that’s punctuated only by the popping and snapping of embers and the rustles of leaves unsettled by a night mistral.  Finally he says, “You were surprised to see us though. So I’m guessing this night isn’t what you foresaw in this dream?”

Sometimes, Merlin thinks, Lancelot is too smart (or too noble) for his own good. “You’re right,” he admits, “it wasn’t this meeting I saw.  I don’t always know _when_ these visions show me. It could be years into the future it could be moments. And… just because I see these things, doesn’t mean they’ll always come to pass.”

“So what were the circumstances in which you saw Percival?  If you don’t mind my asking?”

Merlin thinks back to one of his favorite memories:  when Arthur knighted Lancelot, Percival, Gwaine and Elyan.  He doesn’t want to say too much, but he figures that he can describe some of it. “I saw him, and you, and still a few others that I don’t know yet.  We were with Arthur, and Gwen and Gaius were there as well.  There was something terrible happening at Camelot, but the group of us, we were coming together to figure out a way to stop it.” He knows he probably sounds a little too wistful. “It was a good dream, Lancelot. Have no fear.” 

“Well if it was good, then I shall hope that it comes to pass.” His warm smile spreads into a yawn.

“Sleep now, Lancelot. I’ll wake you in a few hours for your watch.”

Lancelot rolls onto his back and shifts the pack that he’s using as a makeshift pillow.  “We’re not done talking, Merlin.” He says softly even as he closes his eyes. “I know there are things you’re not telling me.”

The next morning they set out for the town of Bassbriar, which is one of the places Borden spoke of.  It’s just beyond the woods that edge Cenred’s kingdom.  They’re eyed with suspicion and wariness when they ride into the town.  Clearly these are a people who are suffering under the yoke of Cenred’s cruelty. Strangers will not be very welcome here.

Still, the tavern keeper is eager enough for their coin that he doesn’t do more than grunt at them discouragingly, and then with just a bit less distrust when they pay for their tankards of watery ale.  The three of them sit down at a rickety table to discuss their plans.

“I think we should split up, start asking around after this Borden fellow.” Percival suggests.

It’s actually not a bad idea, so Merlin says that. “That’s not a bad idea. But remember that Borden is a desperate man and likely not above bribery to keep people quiet.  I’d suspect we’re not the only men hunting him, to be honest.” Merlin hands out some extra coins amongst them. “Hopefully those same people who are willing to hide him for money, will also be willing to turn on him for more of the same.”

“Regroup here this evening?” Lancelot asks.

“Yeah,” he looks around the tavern. A bit on the disreputable side, but not the worst Merlin’s been in. “Even if we don’t find anything, we can have a hot meal and sleep in beds tonight.”

They finish their drinks and then head out into the town in different directions.  Merlin seeks out the small market square, looking for any stalls or sellers who look like they might deal in oddities or antiquities.  He knows that Borden followed up on several leads in the area before ultimately seeking out the Druids.

Many of the people he tries to talk to ignore him or shoo him off.

“You’re not buying, I’m not talking,” a fishmonger tells him.

Another man waves him away with his hand on a sword. Merlin takes that warning for what it is.

An old beggar woman stops him, and for a moment he’s hopeful when she says, “I know what you seek, boy.”  He slips a coin into her weathered, bird-like hand and she takes it gratefully.

“You know the man I’m looking for?” Merlin asks, bending close to her ear.

“The Goose’s Folly,” she tells him, “Just off Market Row. You’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

He thanks her profusely and heads down the street indicated.  His hopes are up until he’s at the door of the establishment. The rather buxom woman who answers the door looks him up and down, leering. “Aren’t you a pretty one. So what’s your pleasure, young man? Or perhaps you’re looking for work? We could use a face like yours.”

He quickly – and blushingly - comes to the realization that the beggar woman has guided him to a brothel.  “Uh, I’m just looking for someone,” he tries to explain. “A man called Borden?”

She frowns, just a bit and then shrugs. “We’ve got a fellow inside who’ll call himself whatever you like, luv, for the right price.”

Mortified, Merlin just shakes his head and backs away. “Uh, no. I’m sorry. That’s not… I mean, thank you, but.” Knowing that he’s scarlet to his ears, Merlin finally just sighs. “Thanks but no thanks. I’ll just be going now.”

He leaves, but not before the woman calls out, “If you change your mind you know where to find us. And I weren’t lying … if you’re looking for work we could always use a bloke like you!”

Merlin ducks around a corner and out of sight as quickly as he can. 

Unfortunately, no one that Merlin talks to for the rest of the day – either those that speak openly or those that require a bit of encouragement – has heard of Borden.  

When they regroup later, Percival reports the same, but Lancelot says that he might have a lead. “This man I spoke with,” he explains over another round of ale and steaming plates of roast mutton and vegetables, “he’s an assayer and he said he met with a man of Borden’s description, although Borden didn’t use that name.  He said that Borden was asking after a piece of worked metal that looked broken with scrolling at one end. He thought the assayer might have had it brought to him to appraise.  Sounds quite like the key you’re after.”

“Is he here?” Merlin asks eagerly. “Is Borden here?”

Lancelot shakes his head in the negative. “No.  The man I spoke with encountered him on his way to Bassbriar from Greenfold. Borden was heading into that city.”

Merlin sighs. He’d been hoping to find Borden here, though he should’ve known it wouldn’t be so easy. “So it’s off to Greenfold tomorrow, then.”

After their meal is finished, they spend the rest of the evening in the tavern just chatting and drinking.  Lancelot and Percival share the story of how they met, which is actually something that Merlin’s never heard.  When he first met Percival (in his old life) he’d come along with Lancelot when Merlin had sent for him to help Arthur regain Camelot.   After that, he learned various things about Percival – the loss of his family and his youth in the lands near Camlann – but he’d never gotten the story about how Lancelot and Percival actually met.

“So there I was,” Percival gives a broad swing of one arm, tankard sloshing a few drops over the tabletop, “facing off three bandits who had me cornered and me without a sword.”

Lancelot chuckles, nudges Merlin with an elbow and says, “Tell Merlin _why_ you didn’t have your sword.”

Percival glares, but it’s chased away a moment later by a laugh. “I’d been bathing, in the river.”

“He wasn’t even wearing small clothes, and was soaking wet and up to his knees in the water when I came upon the scene.” Lancelot elaborates.  He’s got control of his voice, but his eyes are bright with contained laughter.

Merlin nearly spits out the mouthful of ale he’s just taken. It’s a close thing to keep it down and manage to swallow.  The image of Percival, naked and facing down bandits is one he can’t quite fathom.

“Still,” Lancelot looks grudgingly impressed, “even then, the bandits were reluctant to charge him.”

“I did have a branch,” Percival explains.

Merlin can’t help it. He arches a knowing eyebrow.

Percival catches on and for a split second he just boggles at Merlin, and then he bursts into loud guffaws and leans across the table to clap Merlin on the shoulder.  It’s a pounding that knocks Merlin into Lancelot and sends tankards nearly tumbling.

Lancelot looks between them, puzzled, and then his eyes go wide as he finally gets it as well. He looks at Merlin, scandalized and shaking his head, but shaking with silent laughter also.

“So what happened?” Merlin finally manages to ask (after they’ve stopped chuckling and have replaced their spilled drinks).

“Just when the bandits decided to risk attacking, Lancelot showed up.” Percival toasts him with a lift of his newly filled tankard. “Luckily he recognized that I was the one in danger and between us we managed to chase off the bandits.”

Merlin takes a sip and then looks over the rim of his mug, mischief in his eyes. “Lancelot with his sword and you with your branch?”

Next to him he hears Lancelot snicker. “It was more like a log than a branch.”

That sets them all off again.  The proprietor scowls in their direction but since they’re paying for the ale they spill and there are only a few other customers who don’t look too disturbed by their boisterous laughter he doesn’t do more than that.

They get a room for the night (it only has two beds, but they throw a soft pallet on the floor that Merlin volunteers to take).  As with the night before, Lancelot waits until Percival is snuffling and breathing deeply – clearly asleep – before he rolls to the edge of the bed and whispers down to Merlin who is sacked out on the floor between the beds.  “Merlin, you’re my friend and I know you wouldn’t lie to me if you didn’t need to, but I know there’s something you’re not telling me.”

When Merlin starts to sputter a protest, Lancelot shifts a hand off the bed and holds it out. “I don’t want to put you in the position where you have to lie, Merlin.  I know it must make you miserable to do so.  But I just need to say this.  There’s something very different about you, now.” Merlin draws in a shallow breath as Lancelot goes on. “You’re… not the same person I saw just a few weeks ago. You’ve changed.” He looks down at Merlin, frowning. “Just tell me this: are you alright, my friend?”

This is why Merlin came to care for Lancelot so quickly. He is a true and stalwart friend and he gives his whole heart to those he cares for.  Merlin has to swallow before he can speak and even then his voice is raspy and thick. “I’m alright, Lancelot. I promise you.   I just… there are some things I know now, about what could come to pass. And I need to change them. I need to make sure destiny follows the right path.”

“You’ve told me that protecting Arthur was your destiny. Is it safe to assume that these things you seek to prevent revolve around him?”

Merlin nods. “Yes.  I… I’m meant to save him, Lancelot.  I can think on nothing else.”

Lancelot is quiet a moment and Merlin wonders if that’s the end of their conversation for the night.  Apparently it isn’t though, because Lancelot inhales and waits a few more long moments before speaking again.

“Merlin, you know I would never speak ill of Arthur.  Nor can I truly comprehend what he means to you. But are you happy in this life you’ve chosen for yourself?”

Frowning, Merlin isn’t quite sure what Lancelot is getting at. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, your whole life is dedicated to this one man who… let’s be honest, doesn’t always treat you as you deserve.  What of a life of your own, Merlin? Of finding love and pursuing your own happiness?”

Merlin bristles for no reason he can readily identify. It makes him speak sharply and out of turn. “Are you really one to chastise me so, Lancelot?  You’ve given up Guinevere because of Arthur’s interest in her, and have thrown away your own chance for happiness.”

They stare at each other, both a little wounded, but then the tension passes and Lancelot gives an apologetic smile and Merlin returns it.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin offers first, before Lancelot can say the same. “That was uncalled for.”

“No,” Lancelot reaches down to ruffle Merlin’s hair. “It was as fair as the words I said to you.” Merlin slaps his hand away.  “I do worry for you, Merlin. I won’t lie. But if you tell me to drop it, I will.”

Running a hand over his head to smooth down the hair that Lancelot mussed, Merlin agrees. “I worry for you as well, my friend.  But I think we are bound to disagree with each other on these subjects.” He reaches up and clasps Lancelot’s wrist. “I know it may not seem it, but I am happy.  And keeping Arthur safe is all that matters to me.”

Lancelot twists his hand so he can wrap his fingers around Merlin’s wrist in return. “If you say you are happy, then I believe you.”

“Thank you.” Merlin draws his hand back and crosses his arms under his head on the pillow. “I noticed you said nothing to me of your own happiness, though.”

He gets a pillow to the face for his trouble. “Good night, Merlin.”

“Good night, Lancelot.” He keeps the pillow.

The trio make good time the next morning and ride into Greenfold just as the sun peaks overhead in the cloud-scattered sky.  Further still into Cenred’s lands, Greenfold is a larger, more prosperous town, but still nothing like the friendly villages Merlin is familiar with in Camelot’s demesnes.    The denizens are at least more used to travelers because the three of them are barely looked at askance as they walk their mounts down the center street.

They find the first decent looking tavern they can find, stable their mounts and follow the same plan as the day before.   Merlin, again, heads to the market. This one is bustling. Greenfold is a hub of several smaller villages which makes it a prosperous town for trade.  He seeks out the types of trade stalls that might tempt Borden: silversmiths and iron mongers and sword smiths and even jewelers. 

He gets a lead at the Silversmith, though it costs him. “Sure,” the Smith, a man of middle years with a grizzled beard and well-scarred hands, tells him when asked if he might recognize Borden, “but it’s knowledge that won’t come cheap.”

“I’m prepared to pay.” Merlin acknowledges.  He holds out two small coins.

The Silversmith just laughs. “Nay, I don’t mean a few coppers. I mean one of my pieces.  Buy one and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Merlin blows out a frustrated breath but decides it’s easier to just comply.  He browses the man’s wares and reluctantly has to admit that the man _is_ a skilled craftsman.  His fine work is some of the best Merlin’s seen.  He finds a pendant delicately shaped like a little rabbit, complete with small emerald chips for eyes, and it makes him laugh.  He _has_ to buy it for Morgana.   

But that would look suspicious to Arthur, so he finds a superb little flower necklace – a lady’s smock in bloom - that he can give to Gwen, and an enameled hair comb he thinks his mother might like.   He’s just about to barter for the lot when another piece catches his eye. It’s a bas relief bird on a hammered brass disc. It stands out not only because the bird is worked in silver and copper, but because the shape of the bird – a dove-like profile – reminds him of Arthur’s mother’s sigil. Would it be too inappropriate for him to get something like that for Arthur?   

A pendant really wouldn’t be suitable, he decides, and focuses his attention on the small selection of silver-accented weapons instead.  There are several daggers with carved horn grips, decorative pommels or guards and etching chased down the tang. They’re quite lovely (albeit pricey), and definitely something Arthur would appreciate more than a pendant. (He ignores the voice in his head that tells him he wants to buy back Arthur’s affections, since he’s already plagued by guilt at being gone for so long under the guise of a lie.)

Merlin nods his chin to the daggers. “If I were to make you a bargain for one of those, would it guarantee that the information you have to share will be worth the trade?”

The smith looks intrigued. “What would you consider worth it, boy?”

“Your word that the information you have to give will lead me to the man I seek. Not a mere likelihood or a chance, but an absolute guarantee.  How sure are you of the information you have?”

“Absolutely sure,” the Smith states firmly. “You buy one of those daggers and you’ll have your man. My word on that.”

“Alright,” Merlin agrees. He picks up one of the weapons, it’s blade about three-quarters the length of his forearm.  The grip is simple leather with wire wrap, and both the pommel and guard are plain silver. “Can you work something into the pommel?  A design on either side?”

“It’ll cost more, boy.” The man cautions. “You’d best be serious in your interest. I’ll not waste my time if you’re looking to cheat me.”

“I’m quite serious,” Merlin hurries to assure him. “I have the coin.” He does, barely, though he’ll have to strike a good bargain if he wants to keep enough to restock on the supplies he’ll need.

“Alright, boy.  You tell me what you want on the pommel. You’ll have to come back tomorrow for it though.”

Merlin frowns. He may not be here tomorrow, depending on where this man’s information takes him.  He says as much, and the Smith just grins. “You’ll be here tomorrow.  I’m sure of that.”

Which tells Merlin that Borden is _here_ , in Greenfold.  “You have a bargain then.” He describes what he wants for each side of the pommel.  Despite his rather underhanded method of making a sale, the Smith is a professional. He takes out a stick of charcoal and sketches on the wood of his stall to make sure he understands Merlin’s ideas.

“I’ll take these two pendants and this comb as well,” Merlin adds, picking out the flower and the rabbit.

“This man must be worth quite a bit to you.” The Smith frowns suddenly. “I’m not going to get dragged into whatever issue you have with him, am I? I’ll pass on your gold if that’s where this is leading.”

“No, no,” Merlin hurries to assure him. “He just has something of mine that I want back.”

The Smith nods knowingly. “Ah, it’s that odd bit of metal, isn’t it? Looks like it were broken off of something? With the etchings the like of which I’ve never seen.”

Merlin doesn’t agree, but he knows that his silence does it for him.

“I can tell you that this man is certainly eager to find other pieces that look like it.” He holds out a hand. “And that’s the last of the information I’m givin’ out for free. Pay up now and I’ll have your dagger ready tomorrow.” He names a price that leaves Merlin gaping.

Merlin counters for something much more reasonable (and that he can afford).

The Smith looks as if he’s enjoying this bit more than anything else and he comes back with an amount that’s only a few less coppers than his original price.

It takes them time (far too much, in Merlin’s opinion) but they finally settle on a price. And Merlin knows that he probably could’ve gotten the Smith to go cheaper, but he frankly got tired of verbally sparring with the man (which he suspects was the Smith’s purpose in being so tightfisted to start).

He hands over the agreed upon amount and his money pouch feels much lighter for it. “There,” Merlin says with no little exasperation. “You have your gold.  Now what of your information?”

The Smith pockets his gains and smiles beatifically at Merlin. “I thank you for both the purchase and the haggling.  It’s always good to keep in practice.” The smile falls away. “The man you’re looking for keeps a room at the Stag’s Run.  But know this: the barkeep there is well-paid by this friend of yours, and won’t give him up.  The room he’s staying in is not something you can get to from the common room either.  You need to go ‘round to the cold house out back.  There’s a hidden door behind some casks.”

“How do you know this?” Merlin asks, because this information is startlingly specific.

“I’ve used the room m’self. Had to hide some goods there when the tax collector came through town.” He spits into the dirt. “Cenred’s bleedin’ us dry, and his men ain’t above taking that which isn’t there’s.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Aye. I don’t think you’ll find your friend there in the day.  And, he’ll have the entrance watched, for sure.  I’d wait until nightfall before trying to get in there.”

Merlin nods. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

The smith grins again. “And you’ve been most profitable. I can close down early today to get to work on your dagger.”

Merlin parts with a promise to stop back sometime after sun-up, when the market reopens.   With the information he needs in hand, Merlin decides to see if he can find Percival and Lancelot.  They’d both given vague direction on where they were going to look so he picks one at random.

Percival, luckily, is a rather easy man to track down.  Merlin spots him down a lane that seems to be populated by some of the more fragrant businesses – knackers and dyers and tanners – where he’s chatting with a pretty girl. 

He waits to approach until their conversation is done (and when he waves at Percival and Percival heads over to join him, he sees the girl peek back out from a doorway to stare at them openly).

“You’ve made a friend.” Merlin laughs.

“Huh?” Percival frowns.

Merlin points to the girl who’s still watching them.

“Oh, yeah.” Percival flushes and scrubs at the back of his neck. “She was nice enough. Looking to trap a husband, I suspect. Unfortunately, while I now know of a good place to meet for a private rendezvous where her father won’t find us,” he laughs, still slightly embarrassed, “she hasn’t seen Borden.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Merlin tells him. “I’ve found out where Borden is hiding out.  C’mon, let’s go find Lancelot and I can tell the both of you about it.”

Lancelot proves a bit harder to find, but that’s because he’s been methodically interviewing people in the blacksmiths and stables.   They head back to the Inn that they’ve selected (not the same one Borden is at) and take a table in the corner.  Merlin tells them what he learned from the Silversmith.

“So we’ll go there tonight.” Lancelot says. “I’ll go with you to confront Borden,” he points to Merlin, “and Percival can discourage any interest in those who might follow.” He smirks and throws a sly wink Merlin’s way. 

Merlin realizes what he’s done – cleared the way for him to use his magic if need be, with Percival none the wiser – and he gives a quick wink in return to show that he follows. “That sounds like an ideal plan.”

With nothing else to do but wait for nightfall they head back down to the market to restock on the supplies Merlin was concerned about (and Percival and Lancelot have a good laugh at Merlin’s expense when he tells them of his bargain with the Silversmith).   With that as their guise, they do a bit of exploring of the town.  Most of the Inns and taverns are near the square and they find the Stag’s Run easily enough.   Merlin ‘accidentally’ spills a bag of apples he’s carrying when they pass behind the building, which gives them the opportunity to scope out the cold house while collecting the spilled fruit.

Afterwards, they return to the Inn for dinner, though they keep their ale consumption down from the night before.   They tell stories again to pass the time and Merlin becomes the subject of quite a laugh when he admits to the scene at the brothel the day before.

Eventually, when the rest of the patrons start to file out as it gets late and the Innkeeper makes noise about getting last rounds in, they unobtrusively head upstairs to their room (a larger common room this time, with beds for each).   They chose it because it has a window that looks out over a first floor level of the building, and it’s just a short drop from the roof to the ground. 

Long after midnight the streets have grown quiet.   Merlin finally signals the others and they slip out the window as noiselessly as possible.  They make it half the distance to the Stag’s Run before they encounter anyone, and then their tactic of getting past is ‘our friend the drunkard’.  Merlin and Percival support a staggering Lancelot between them, and they walk in stumbling tandem and half-drag Lancelot down the street.

A local guard – definitely one of Cenred’s men – stops them. “You, what’s your business at this time of night.” He holds out a torch to get a better look at them.

Percival laughs jovially, sounding completely sloshed. “Our friend here can’t hold his ale.” He booms out another drunken laugh and if Merlin didn’t know any better he’d suspect Percival of actually being well into his cups.

Merlin tries to look long-suffering. “Someone convinced my brother the sot,” he gives Lancelot a little shake, “that he could outdrink the big fellow here.  Now we’re stuck dragging him home.” He lowers his head towards the guard and mock-whispers, “Between you and me I’m just glad it’s not the big guy who got so pissed. He’d have been hell to drag through the streets!”

The guard laughs. “Be on your way then.”  He waves them on.  Merlin thanks him quickly and they continue their unsteady walk down the street.  When the guard is out of sight they duck down an alley.

“The cold house is just around this corner,” Merlin indicates, keeping his voice low so it doesn’t carry. “Lancelot and I are going to head in. Percival, you stay here and watch for anyone to follow. If the Silversmith can be believed, Borden’s got at least one man working for him.”

Percival nods and draws his sword. “Good luck,” he whispers. 

Lancelot and Merlin both nod. “You too.”

“And Merlin,” Percival adds, quiet but insistent, before they can sneak around the corner. “If you’re gone too long, I’m coming in after you.”

Merlin grins wide. “I’m counting on that!”

He and Lancelot hug the walls and keep to the shadows and when they reach the small stone-walled cold house, Merlin speaks a quick spell of concealment. 

“What was that?” Lancelot hisses in his ear. “I saw your eyes go gold.”

“A spell that should hide us.  It won’t conceal us entirely, but to those watching, we’ll be difficult to see with any clarity.”

“Handy,” Lancelot says.

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees. “Alright, I’m at the door. Let’s go in.” Merlin eases the door open and they slip inside.  It’s dark, darker than the moonlit night outside as the cold room has no windows, so Merlin whispers another spell that summons a small ball of light to his hand. “Leoht.”

Lancelot winces at the sudden bright-white glow.

“Sorry,” Merlin says. “I should’ve warned you about that.” 

“It’s alright,” Lancelot reassures him, though he’s squinting and shielding his eyes. “I’m alright, let’s press on.”

With the light of the orb, Merlin can make out the casks that the Smith spoke of stacked against the back wall behind shelves piled high with cheeses and vegetables and grains.  There are cellar doors that lead down into the larder, but Merlin ignores those as well.  He puts a shoulder up to one of the casks and to his surprise the whole stack of them swings outward as one almost soundlessly.

“Now _that’s_ handy,” Merlin says.

“An old smugglers trick,” Lancelot explains. “Stack a few real barrels in front of it, and someone doing a hasty search would be sure to miss it.”

That makes sense to Merlin.  There’s a short hallway behind the space exposed by the shifted wall of casks with a door at the end.  Merlin can see no light at its edges.  Either Borden is waiting in the dark, or they’ve actually caught him asleep.

“I’ll open the door on three,” Merlin says, whispering the words right into Lancelot’s ear. “We’ll wait a beat and then both go in, alright?”

“Wait,” Lancelot cautions, pulling Merlin back from the door. “That light of yours. Can you send that in first? If he’s waiting, he’s sitting in the dark and that’ll blind him for a good few seconds, as it did to me.”

“Yes,” Merlin hisses out with a grin. Because that’s a very good idea.  He eases the door open, and with a ‘push’ of magic sends the glowing orb into the room.

There’s a ‘twang’ followed immediately by the sudden and loud ‘thwack’ of a bolt lodging itself into the wood just a foot away from Merlin’s head.  Knowing they’ve got precious seconds before Borden can reload his crossbow, Merlin and Lancelot rush in.

Borden is hunched in a corner, frantically scrabbling to get another bolt loaded.  Lancelot pushes past Merlin, sword leading, and puts the point at the center of Borden’s chest.  “Drop it,” he growls out.

Borden hastily complies and Lancelot kicks the weapon aside.  “Who are you? What do you want?  I have no money, you’re wasting you—“

Merlin lights the candles in the room with a thought and Borden’s eyes widen even further. “I’ll do the talking here,” Merlin tells him and Lancelot punctuates this with an increase in pressure on the sword.  Borden scrambles back further into the wall.

“Alright.  Fine. Just tell me what it is you want.”

Merlin draws out the two-thirds completed Triskelion.  Borden’s eyes widen for an altogether different reason and they fix on the key. “You know what this is and you know what it leads to. I know you’ve spent the better part of the last fifteen years searching for the pieces.”

“H…how do you kn—“

“Quiet!” Merlin snaps. “I said I’ll do the talking.  I know many things, Julius Borden.   I know why you left Camelot all those years ago. I know about the betrayals.  And I also know that you’ve got the third piece of the Triskelion of Ashkanar.”

Borden shakes his head but his eyes betray him; they dart to the side for just a moment.  Merlin follows that gaze to a pack that’s half-shoved underneath the bed. 

“If you know of the Triskelion then you know what’s in the Tomb of Ashkanar,” Borden spits out urgently. “Please, we can go and get it together. All three of us,” he amends when Lancelot leans a little bit more on the sword. “The egg is worth untold riches.  More than any one man could ever need.”

Ignoring him, Merlin rummages through the pack. He comes up empty at first, but shakes it and can feel something weighing down the bag.  Of course there’s a concealed compartment in the bottom. He should’ve looked for that first thing.  A quick slice with his little knife reveals the final piece. Merlin takes it out and then goes to a knee in front of Borden.

“You are not worthy to have this, or to set foot in Ashkanar’s tomb.” Merlin scowls, and is somewhat surprised at his own venom.  Although in his memory, Borden had betrayed him, nearly killed Arthur and the rest of his friends and was willing to steal the egg of the second to last dragon in existence just to make a tidy profit, so he supposes some of the vitriol that makes it into his words is fairly well warranted.

Deliberately he attaches the third piece of the Triskelion so Borden can see it come together to form a whole.  Borden’s soft whimper of an exhale becomes a whimper of pain when he pushes forward into the sword, his whole body helplessly following the Triskelion when Merlin puts it back in his own pack.

“You have no right!” Borden shouts.

Merlin can’t help himself: he lunges forward and grabs up the collar of Borden’s tunic, twisting it in a fist until Borden chokes. “I am a Dragonlord. I have _every_ right.” He lets the magic build and knows his eyes are molten. Borden’s gaze is fixed on his now and Merlin stares deeply into his eyes. “You’re going to forget about this, about me, about the Triskelion, all of it.  I am _allowing_ you your life, but should I hear even a whisper that you’ve begun to seek me out, I will take _that_ from you as well.”

Merlin stands and shoulders his pack.  “C’mon,” he says to Lancelot, who backs up a pace but keeps the sword extended and at the ready.

Apparently Borden is more foolhardy than Merlin realized because he actually has the gall to glare at Merlin and start complaining. “You won’t get away with this.  I have people watching this place. They’re probably summoning the city guard as we speak.”  

Lancelot nods to Borden. “Should I?” he asks Merlin lifting the sword suggestively.

Borden gawps. “No… no. If you kill me, that’ll be the end for you.”

Merlin declines Lancelot’s offer (although it’s as much to keep Lancelot from having to kill a man as it is out of any consideration for Borden) with a quick and dismissive shake of his head. “No. I’ll let him live.” He turns a vicious snarl of a smirk on Borden. “Although I don’t really want him running off and calling for the guard right after we leave.” He holds out a hand and Borden quails.  “Swefe nu.”  Borden’s eyes roll back in his head and he slumps over.

“How long will he be out?” Lancelot asks.

“A full day. Maybe two.” Merlin amends after a moment’s consideration - he put a little extra force into the spell. “Come on; let’s go see if Percival found any of Borden’s friends.”

Percival did, if the unconscious man on the ground at his feet is any indication. “Get what you needed?” He asks.

“Yeah.” Merlin hefts his pack. “All set.” He nods down at the body. “Let’s get him somewhere he won’t attract any attention.” Merlin starts to reach down to tug at the body but Percival waves him away. He grabs the unconscious man by the waist of his trousers and the back of his collar and just hefts him up like he’s a sack of flour.  “Let’s put him inside with Borden.”

They close the door behind them and leave the cold house as they found it.  Outside, still in shadows, Percival asks. “So now what? Do we slip out of town tonight?”

Merlin shakes his head. “Nah.  It’s late and we could all use some sleep. I uh… gave Borden something that will keep him out for at least a day,” he ignores Lancelot’s smirk, “and I suspect if that other fellow wakes up, he won’t stick around long enough to cause us any trouble. Besides,” Merlin says wryly, “I paid quite a bit to get the information to find Borden, so I want to collect my goods.”

They return to their Inn without incident and tonight Merlin just wants to sleep, but he can practically hear the questions waiting on Lancelot’s lips.  Merlin contemplates feigning sleep – since he is, actually, quite tired – but all that will do is put Lancelot off until the next time he can take Merlin aside for a private chat.  It’s really better to get this over with.  Somehow it feels safer to do this in the dark.

“Percival’s asleep,” Merlin whispers from his bed. 

“I know,” Lancelot whispers back, “I’m just not sure if I’m ready for this.”

That makes Merlin chuckle. “You’re not the only one, Lancelot.” He sits up and then crosses to the other side of the room where Lancelot’s bed is.  Sitting down on the floor with his back to it seems to be the best way to have this conversation.  “So, where do we begin?”

Merlin can hear Lancelot shift and roll on the straw-stuffed mattress. When he speaks his voice is close to Merlin’s ear. “There are many questions I have, Merlin.  I have never seen you use magic like that. I also,” he goes on before Merlin can begin to explain, “have never seen you so ruthless.  You’ve always been a kind and gentle soul, Merlin.” Again, before Merlin can respond, a hand on his shoulder stops him. “And, I thought you said that your _father_ was the Dragonlord?”

Damn. Merlin had been hoping that part might’ve slipped past Lancelot. “My father _is_ a Dragonlord. I uh… inherited some of his abilities is all. I will _be_ a Dragonlord when he dies.” He shrugs his shoulder under Lancelot’s hand.  “I just wanted Borden to know why he was making such a mistake, thinking the dragon’s egg is something to be sold.”

“And the rest?” Lancelot prods, physically squeezing Merlin’s shoulder to encourage him. “The magic and the—“

“Ruthlessness. Yes,” Merlin cuts in, suddenly weary. “I’m afraid with some of the things I’ve seen I’ve learned that sometimes kindness and forgiveness don’t work and are a weakness.  They’ve backfired on me too many times and I won’t make the same mistakes.”

“Merlin,” Though he can’t see Lancelot’s face, Merlin knows just how sad it must be. “Whatever this is that you’re going through, I know you cannot talk about it but please don’t let it turn you into something you’re not.”

Something in Merlin snaps then and he can’t stop the words from coming. “Lancelot, you were right the other night. I’m not the man you saw just a few weeks ago.” He can feel the bed shift as Lancelot stiffens. The fingers carefully peel off of his arm.

“What do you mean? Who… who are you?”

Merlin can’t help it; he lets out a sound that bears very little resemblance to a laugh. “Oh, I’m Merlin.  But I am Merlin from far in the future.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand.”

How to explain? “There was a spell.  Isn’t there always?” He laughs again, brief and bitter. “I was given the chance to come back and fix things… to make things right.” He can feel the tears tracking down his cheeks but makes no move to wipe them away. “I have lived almost twenty more years of my life, Lancelot and seen so many terrible things.  I spent ten years alone, away from Camelot, wishing nothing more, every day, than for the chance to change things. And then I got that chance.”

Clearly flummoxed, Lancelot asks, “If you have lived twenty years beyond today, how is it you don’t look a day older than when I last saw you?”

Merlin knows he should be grateful that Lancelot is trying to understand and that he hasn’t called Merlin crazy, but he’s just so weary of it all. “It wasn’t my body that came back, it was… well, my soul, for lack of a better term.” He drops his head. “A few weeks ago, just a few days after I last saw you in fact, I woke up as my younger self, but I still have all the memories of the life I lived. And ever since I woke, I’ve been trying to change things, to fix them.”

There is a long, telling silence.  Merlin waits, anxiously, for Lancelot to say something… anything.   The silence continues and Merlin contemplates leaving (Lancelot’s bedside? The Inn? He doesn’t know). He didn’t mean to burden Lancelot with this. He just needed to tell _someone_.

To his surprise the quiet isn’t interrupted by words, but motion. He feels Lancelot sit up on the bed and braces himself for whatever is to come.  He’s not expecting Lancelot to settle on the floor next to him, nor the arm that goes around his shoulder. 

“It’s Arthur, isn’t it?” Lancelot tugs Merlin closer.

Merlin nods, almost unable to speak for the emotion choking him. Telling Lancelot, finally sharing his burden, while cathartic, also brings it all back. “So much changes, Lancelot.  So many people die… Arthur,” he sobs, “he died… in my arms.  I can’t let it happen again.  I need to change it.” Merlin feels a hand in his hair, just holding, and he lets his head fall against it.

“I cannot imagine the burden you must bear, Merlin.  I’m glad you chose to tell me though.” He rucks up Merlin’s hair just a little. “Shouldering something so weighty alone must’ve been terrible.” 

“It has been,” Merlin agrees, wiping his sleeve across his face.  He sniffles and then inhales, gaining a modicum of control. “And it feels very good to have shared it. I could not tell Gaius or…  Arthur. Not anyone.”

There’s a telling pause before Lancelot speaks again. “I have to ask… when Percival and I first came upon you in the woods you looked quite surprised to see me. Am I… do I…?” It’s apparent he can’t bring himself to finish the question.

“Yes.” No more lying, Merlin decides. Not to Lancelot at least. “But I won’t let it happen again,” he says fiercely. “I have already changed things and I won’t lose you or Arthur or anyone.”

“How?”

“Lancelot, no.” He shakes his head against the hand cupping the back of it. “It’s not going to happen now. I’ve changed things.”

“Please, Merlin.” Lancelot is still quiet, but his insistence is loud enough.

Merlin blows out a breath. “Fine.  But remember that this does not make it your destiny. I _will_ see all of ours destinies changed.” He takes a moment, thinking about how best to explain. “It’s a few years from now.  Well, it would be, if it happened at all.  You sacrifice yourself in the bravest and noblest and most selfless act I’ve ever seen.”

He knows that won’t be enough. He can’t blame Lancelot; he’d probably be asking the same question. “It’s a very long story and difficult to explain, but through dark magic the barrier between the worlds, of living and dead, was torn.  These creatures were escaping and their very touch could kill. Hundreds were dying. We learned the only way to close the tear was with a sacrifice.  Arthur was planning on it, to save Camelot and his people.” He says this with a sigh of aggravation, because _of course_ Arthur was. “And I was planning on sacrificing _myself_ instead of letting Arthur go through with it.  I made the mistake of telling you about my plan,” he jabs an elbow into Lancelot’s ribs. “And while I was trying to stop Arthur you slipped past us both and walked into the fissure… and then you were gone.”

He turns to Lancelot, and can just make out his features in the dark room.  “You saved all of Camelot. And you had this smile on your face… I’ve never forgotten it. It was one of the bravest and most honorable things I’ve ever seen.”

Lancelot is smiling now: the same, small curve set on his mouth, damn him. “That sounds like a good death.”

Merlin snorts. “Well don’t get used to the idea, because it’s not going to happen.  I won’t let it.  I am much more powerful than the boy you knew and I will not lose anyone… not this time.”

“Merlin, I won’t tell you not to do this.  I already know you’re willing to give everything of yourself for your friends and for Arthur.   Just… don’t let this be your whole life.   Let yourself live and find enjoyment in this, please.”

“I do, Lancelot.” He hurries to reassure his friend. “I have found moments of indescribable joy since I’ve been back.” He shakes his head, laughing at himself. “I even find myself enjoying the little things like polishing armor and cleaning up after Arthur.  Things I didn’t realize I’d miss until they were no longer a part of my life.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

“You should do the same,” Merlin advises. 

Lancelot just scruffs his hair again and Merlin ducks away. “Let’s get some sleep,” Lancelot instructs. He pushes himself up and offers Merlin a hand to pull him up off the floor. 

Merlin settles back on his bunk and draws the blankets up to his shoulders. Across the room he hears Lancelot doing the same. “I’m not done, you know.” He says into the darkness. “I’m going to get you to admit that you deserve to be happy as well, Lancelot.”

“Perhaps.” There’s a soft laugh. “Good night, Merlin.”

“Good night, Lancelot.”

The next morning, cloudy gray and threatening rain, Merlin heads right to the market to meet with the Silversmith.  Half of the stalls are still closed down or just setting up, but he’s anxious to be on the road.  Luckily the Smith must be expecting him because he’s already setting out his wares. 

“Am I to assume from your prompt arrival that the information I gave you was of use?” His grin is smug.

“You mean the information I paid dearly for?” Merlin retorts, but he smiles as well.  “Yes, it was of use.” He _did_ get what he came for after all. Plus he’s feeling much more lighthearted after his conversation with Lancelot. It’s a huge relief that someone knows what he’s going through.

The Smith just chuckles. “I’ve got yer piece done.” He pulls a cloth-wrapped bundle from the packs around his feet. “I hope you find it a fair trade.”

Merlin un-ties the cord and rolls the dagger out of the linen and then holds it up to study in the light.  It’s stunning.    Not only is the pommel decorated as requested (Ygraine’s sigil skillfully rendered on one side, and a perfect representation of the Pendragon crest on the other) but each end of the guard is decorated with a rampant lion’s head with rubies set in the eyes and it’s cased in a leather sheath that’s capped and tipped in matching silver.

“It’s beautiful,” Merlin gushes. “It’s more then I asked for.” He looks over at the smith, suddenly suspicious. “Much more.”

The Smith spreads his hands. “I recognize the mark of the Pendragon when I see it.  You wouldn’t have had me set that in the pommel if this weren’t meant for someone from that house.” He shrugs. “Call the rest an advertisement of my wares, if you will.”

He leans a little closer, voice going quiet. “I’m looking to make my way out of Cenred’s lands.  The price you paid on this dagger is a good start but when I get to Camelot lands, it won’t hurt if I’ve already made a name for myself, now will it?” He winks. “You just be sure to let everyone know that Karrick the Silversmith is the man who made it.”

“Oh, I will.” Merlin agrees, eagerly.  “Though I may have to caution people against haggling with you.”

Karrick laughs again. “That’s only fair. Thank you for the business.”

“Thank you for this,” he lifts the dagger, “and the information.”

Merlin shakes his proffered hand and then carefully re-wraps and packs the dagger and his other purchases.   Percival and Lancelot are waiting just down the street with their horses already saddled and ready to go.  He returns to them and they mount up and ride out of town.

With the town (and Cenred’s guards) behind them, Merlin fills them in on the next stage of the journey. “We’re heading about a day’s ride east to the Feorre Mountains, near the Forest of Merendra. There is a cave there that leads to the Tower.” He draws on his reins slightly, slowing his mount so that the three can ride abreast while the width of the road allows it. “The cave is also where we’ll find my father.”

He waits until they skirt their horses around a fallen tree that nearly blocks the road before telling them, “There’s something you should know before we get there.  Balinor, my father, uh… doesn’t know who I am.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there, Merlin” Percival turns to raise an eyebrow. “Is it one you want to share?”

“Tonight,” Merlin agrees, “after we make camp.”

Though they’ve got nearly twelve leagues to go to make it to the Forest of Merendra, the weather holds and they manage to avoid both Cenred’s patrols as well as roaming bandits. Merlin calls them to a halt once they reach the forest and they set-up camp just as dusk begins to settle.  

It feels odd to Merlin that he’s not the one taking on the majority of the tasks around their camp; too easy to forget he’s not a servant here.  This almost feels like just another journey with two of Camelot’s finest Knights.  But Percival volunteers to look after their horses and Lancelot gathers firewood, leaving Merlin to start preparing a meal (a brace of partridges that Merlin chased up and Percival managed to wing with his crossbow).  

“You’ve got a good hand with partridge, Merlin.” Percival says after they’ve eaten, picking at his teeth with what looks to be a small wing bone.

“You should try my stew,” Merlin tells him with a laugh. He’s struck by the memory of the last time he was in these woods.  It was when they were chasing Borden, attempting to get the Dragon’s egg the first time.  Percival, along with Arthur and the rest of the Knights had found particular amusement with teasing Merlin about finishing the food he prepared before Merlin got any. It was pure silliness and he knew that even as the butt of their jokes, it was all in good fun. That camaraderie is something he misses with an ache, but the semblance of it now is soothing.

“You’ll have to make it for us some time.”

Percival’s comment brings Merlin out of his reverie and he bobs his head in agreement.

Lancelot throws a twig over the fire at Percival. “You should take a turn at cooking.”

“You wouldn’t want that.” Percival grimaces. “I can’t even manage porridge.”

“That’s true,” Lancelot confirms and then in a loud aside to Merlin says, “I had to scrape my bowl into the bushes the last time I let him cook anything that wasn’t game.  Not even the rats would touch it.”

Percival hefts his broad shoulders. “I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t eat it either.” That earns him a laugh. “So, Merlin.  You said you’d share the story about your father.”

Merlin does. He tells them – omitting certain details – about Balinor being pursued by Uther’s men and taking refuge in Ealdor. And then about how Balinor had left Ealdor – and Hunith – to keep them safe and had ended up living as a recluse.  “He won’t welcome visitors.” Merlin concludes. “So it might be best if you let me speak to him first.”

Lancelot agrees. “We’ll stay close, but give you the time you need to speak to him.”

“So then this dragon’s egg,” Percival wonders, “is in a tower that’s beyond the cave?”

“Yes.  If you pass through the cave there’s a waterfall at the other end.  The tower is another few leagues beyond that.”

“Do you think we can get this done tomorrow?” Lancelot asks.

Merlin considers. “Well, if I can convince Balinor to help, I shouldn’t see why not.  Why do you ask?”

Lancelot fixes Merlin with a pointed look. “You’ve been away from Camelot days already. I thought you’d be wanting to get back.”

“Oh, right.” Merlin ducks his head sheepishly. “I told Arthur it might be as long as a fortnight.  Besides, I have one more stop I want to make before I return.”

“Oh? Where is that?”

“Ealdor.” Merlin admits, head still held low. “I want to see if I can convince Balinor to return to Ealdor.”

“Do you think it’s safe for him to return?” Percival asks. “You said that Uther was hunting for him.”

“Uther thinks that all the Dragonlords are dead.” He looks up at then, gaze shifting from Percival to Lancelot. “Of course I have to ask that you’d both keep his secret.”

“Of course,” they both agree almost in tandem.

“Thank you,” Merlin says sincerely. 

They turn in shortly after that and this time Percival volunteers for first watch so Merlin and Lancelot don’t have a chance to talk any further.  Merlin doesn’t mind though; he’s fairly certain they’ve talked out as much as they can (although he wasn’t lying when he told Lancelot that he wasn’t going to let up about his happiness).

There’s a light rain pattering the leaves and drizzling just enough to make the morning damp and misty when they break camp.  Merlin leads the way to the cave, following the path made by the stream that cuts through it.  There’s no one waiting at the cave mouth when they arrive, so they make their way inside.  Despite the familiar signs of habitation, it seems the cave is empty as well.

“That’s far enough!” The voice rings out from behind them.

Merlin whirls and can hear swords being drawn from either side of him.  He holds his arms out to his friends. “Let me.” He says softly and then takes a step forward. “Please, we mean you no harm.”

Balinor is silhouetted against the entrance, his own sword held at the ready. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Merlin keeps his hands up. “My name is Merlin. I am a friend of Gaius.”

“Gaius? He still lives?”

“Yes, he does. He lives and is very well.  I live in Camelot with him, actually. He is my mentor.”

There’s a moment’s pause. “And these two?”

“These two are Lancelot and Percival and they are friends of mine.” He takes another hesitant step closer.  “I need to speak to you about a certain captive beneath Camelot.”

Balinor moves into the cave, though he doesn’t lower the sword.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look,” Merlin tries another tack. He’d nearly forgotten how stubborn his father had been the first time they’d met.  Only Arthur’s injury had allowed them the chance to start talking, and even that was done reluctantly. “If I ask my friends to wait outside, will you please speak to me?  It’s very important.”

“Just you?” Balinor repeats. “Alright, but only for the sake of Gaius. I would have news of him.”

“Of course,” Merlin agrees.  He turns to Lancelot and then to Percival. “I’ll be fine.”

Percival nods and starts for the entrance, giving Merlin’s shoulder a quick squeeze.  Lancelot follows but pauses long enough to tell Merlin, “We’ll be just outside should you need us.”

Balinor backs up to the wall of cavern, keeping his back to it and the sword held steadily in front of him as Lancelot and Percival pass by.  Once they’re out, he edges along the wall until he’s past Merlin, putting Merlin between him and the egress.

“Alright, boy, it’s just the two of us. Talk.”

“I have much to tell you.   I know who you are,” Merlin takes a deep breath, “Balinor.”

Balinor doesn’t react except to ask, “Gaius told you about me?”

“Yes. I know what you are as well.  A Dragonlord.”

Again, that earns him no reaction. He neatly ignores it. “You mentioned a certain guest below Camelot’s dungeons.”

“Yes, Kilgharrah.”

That does garner a response. Balinor’s eyes widen. “He told you his name?”

Merlin nods. “I know it, yes.  I also set him free.”

Balinor’s mouth goes slack for a moment. “ _You_ _freed_ Kilgharrah?”

Ignoring the disbelief in Balinor’s tone (though he doesn’t know if it’s at the idea that Merlin was _capable_ of freeing the dragon, or that Merlin did it at all), Merlin nods again.

“I suppose he’s wreaking havoc on Camelot then?” Balinor grunts. He doesn’t sound too disappointed by that thought. “He swore to me when I made the mistake of helping Uther imprison him that he’d have his vengeance.  Is that why you’re here?”

“No.  I mean, yes that’s what he _wanted_ to do, but Kilgharrah and I have a bargain. He agreed not to attack Camelot but I had to promise him something in return.”

“What’s that?” His eyes narrow. 

“Kilgharrah is not the last dragon. I have promised to retrieve a dragon’s egg and bring it to him.”

Balinor stares at him oddly for a moment and then he scoffs. “There are no eggs left.  There will be no more dragons.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, you’re wrong. One remains.  In the Tomb of Ashkanar.”

That gets an eye roll. “That is an old story.  Besides, there is no way into the Tomb. Its key has been lost to the ages.”

Trying not to feel too smug, Merlin rummages through his pack, ignoring the way that his father brings the sword up again. “You mean this key?” He holds up the Triskelion.

“Where did you get that, boy?”

“Several places. It was in pieces but I managed to retrieve them all.  I know where the Tomb is and I know there’s a Dragon’s egg inside.  I plan to go and get it, but I will need you to summon Kilgharrah and to call the young dragon from its shell.”

Balinor is staring at him now in disbelief. “Who are you?”

Merlin stands up taller. “I am Merlin, son of Hunith.”

That rocks Balinor in a way that nothing else has. “Hunith? Of Ealdor? She was your mother?”

“Yes. She is.”

“Then she still lives.” He says it reverently, eyes going distant, almost misty, for a moment. He recovers quickly though, and steels his expression. “She married then.  That’s good to hear.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, she never married.” He’s been trying to stay strong for this but already his barriers are crumbling. “No,” he says again, voice close to cracking. “There was never anyone for her after you.” He can feel the teardrops in precarious balance on his lashes but he doesn’t dare blink.

“Never?” Balinor frowns. “But if you’re her son…” His eyes go wide, brows lifting nearly to his hairline.

Merlin nods again, and the motion is enough to shake the tears loose. “Yeah. I’m your son.”

“I don’t know what it is to have a son.” Balinor says sadly.

And Merlin can’t help but laugh, wetly. “Nor I a father.”

They stare at each other for a long while and then Balinor turns and moves over to the low rocks around his cookfire and sits down heavily.  “I don’t even know what to say, Merlin.”

Merlin joins him, taking a seat opposite. “Say you’ll help me with the dragon’s egg.” Merlin suggests. “It’s a start.” When Balinor looks up at him quizzically, Merlin shrugs. “I don’t expect you to be ready for this,” he flicks a hand towards himself, “being a father suddenly. I imagine it’s quite a shock.”

“You could say that.” Balinor laughs, shaking his head and Merlin feels some of the tension ease out of him.  “How is Hunith?” he asks, “and Gaius.  Could you tell me of them?”

“Of course.  My mother is well. She is still in Ealdor.” He’s not sure what Balinor wants to hear, but he knows he wants to convince his father to return there with him. “Still in the same house where I grew up.  It wasn’t always easy for her.” Balinor’s eyes narrow and Merlin hurries to add. “With me, I mean.  I…” he drops his gaze to the floor and then forces it up, to meet Balinor’s. “I have magic. I was born with magic.”

This doesn’t seem to surprise Balinor in the least.  He just smiles softly. “You’re the son of a Dragonlord, Merlin. It would’ve surprised me only if you didn’t have magic of some kind. Still, I can’t imagine that was easy on your mother.  It’s hard enough to control your magic when you come into it later in life. But to have that ability when you are young couldn’t have made for an easy childhood.” He frowns and seems to force the line of his mouth to evenness. “Still, Hunith was a strong woman and brave too. I’m sure it was not more than she could handle.” His whole face softens when he speaks of her despite his best intentions.  

Merlin nods vigorously. “Oh yes.  She still is.  She is the one who sent me to Gaius, so that he could teach me. It was hard for her to send me off,” he sighs wistfully, “leaving her alone. But she thought it was for the best.” He sneaks a glance up at Balinor and sees him frowning again.  It’s rather manipulative, Merlin knows, but he has no plans to leave this cave without his father joining him.

“And Gaius?” Balinor asks, clearing his throat roughly. “How does he fare?”

“Gaius is very well. He’s been, well, like a father to me these past years that I’ve lived in Camelot.” He may put a little emphasis on that part, just to drive the point home again.

“Good, that’s good to hear.” Balinor smiles but there’s a sorrow to it. “Gaius was always a good man. A good friend.” His brows drop in as a thought occurs to him. “How does he manage in Camelot though? With Uther?”

“Oh, Gaius has Uther convinced that he’s given up the old ways and that he no longer trucks with sorcery.” Merlin chuckles. “Though for as often as things happen to Arthur that are caused by magic, he’s lucky Gaius has the knowledge that he does.”

“Arthur? Uther’s son?”

“Yes.  I actually work for Arthur. I am his manservant.” He grins, feeling that little vicious bite that always comes when he thinks about how Uther would react if he knew about Merlin’s magic and how close it is to the throne.

Balinor shakes his head. “That’s a risky position to be in, Merlin.   Working for the son of a King who abhors sorcery and anything to do with magic.”

Merlin gives an easy, almost dismissive shrug. “It’s where I’m meant to be.  Arthur is the reason for my being who I am.” He says it simply, but it’s a heady truth. “Our destinies are forever linked.  Kilgharrah told me that we’re like two sides of the same coin.” He smiles softly. “My mother once said the same.”

“Kilgharrah is wise and dragons know much about the world and destiny that is hidden to mere mortal men.” He cants his head to the side and studies Merlin. “You have a look of fate about you, I can’t deny that.”

“Does that mean you’ll help me then? With the egg and Kilgharrah?”

Balinor goes quiet for so long that Merlin is half afraid he’s just trying to find a way to say ‘no’.

“Yes,” he says instead. “I will help you. I owe it to Kilgharrah as penance for my part in his incarceration.  Also, to bring a dragon from the egg is one of the greatest joys a Dragonlord can know. I would be honored to feel that joy again.”

“Great!” Merlin bounces to his feet. “I’ll just get my friends.”

“Wait,” Balinor stops him. “What do your friends know?  Do they know what I am and what it is you truly seek?”

“They know you are a Dragonlord and that we’re going after a dragon’s egg, yes.  The big fellow, Percival, he does not know of my magic.  But I trust him with my life.” The only reason he’s not told Percival the whole truth is that he still hopes one day Percival will become a Knight of Camelot, and if his magic still isn’t revealed, he doesn’t want to put Percival in a position to lie for him.

“I will keep your secret, then.”

“Thank you.” He looks back just a moment, smiling, and then hurries to go and get Percival and Lancelot.  They’re sitting on the rocks not too far from the cave’s entrance. He waves them over. “C’mon, he’s agreed to help.”

They join him, Lancelot asking, “And does he know who you are now?”

Merlin nods vigorously and knows he’s probably smiling like an idiot. “Yeah, he does.”

Lancelot curves a hand around the back of Merlin’s neck and gives a little shake, while Percival thumps his arm.  “We’re happy for you, Merlin.” Percival tells him.

“I’m happy for me too,” Merlin agrees, and he gives Lancelot a significant side-eye.  That gets him jostled around once more and then a hearty pat on the back.

They rejoin Balinor and once again Merlin reintroduces his friends. This time Balinor greets them – if not warmly, then at least without the mistrust he’d shown earlier.

“So,” Merlin begins, eager to be heading to the Tomb. “Shall we be off then?”

“You know where the Tomb is, do you?” Balinor asks, grinning slightly.

“Yes.  We need to go through the waterfall on the other side of this cave.” Something occurs to him then. “Is that why you live here? In this particular cave.  Are you watching out for the Tomb?”

Balinor shrugs, noncommittally. “Perhaps. It seemed the least I could do to keep any eye on the last dragon’s egg in existence. Plus, it’s been as good a place as any to settle. Come on.” He leads them to the back of the cave and through several narrow, twisting tunnels.  Soon enough the subtle roar of falling water can be both heard and felt reverberating through the stone.

They pass through the falling water a few minutes later and come out the other side in the low valley at the foot of the mountains.  A brief climb to higher ground, away from the pool fed by the waterfall, shows the whole of the valley spread before them. The grassy hills roll down into dense forest and in the middle of that the Tower of Ashkanar is visible.

“There it is!” Merlin crows. 

“I have looked upon it several times, but never approached,” admits Balinor.

“When we get close,” Merlin instructs, already scrambling down the hillside, “I should be the only one who goes in. The tower is trapped.”

Balinor catches at his arm, stopping him. “How do you know this?”

That, Merlin has an easy answer for. “The Druids told me.  They gave me the second piece of the Triskelion and they also warned me that there is a trap waiting for any who would use the key.” He doesn’t mention that he was told these things at two entirely different times in two entirely different lives.

“Then it’s not safe for you to go in there alone,” Percival chimes in. “What if something happened to you?”

“I’ll go with him,” Lancelot states, and Merlin can tell that there will be no talking him out of it.

“Alright,” Merlin agrees, because he can see that he won’t be able to convince them to let him go alone. “But just Lancelot.  The Druids were vague,” Balinor snorts at this and Merlin makes a mental note to ask him about his experiences with them, “but I get the feeling that the tower won’t be so stable once the egg is removed. I don’t want any more than two of us in there.”

That is agreed upon (though Balinor still looks disapproving) and they continue on their way. The last time Merlin came through here with Arthur and the Knights they’d been ambushed by Borden when they reached a small ravine. He leads them through it this time hesitantly, sticking close to the stone wall of the gill and occasionally sending out his ‘sight’ to see the path ahead. 

Nothing happens.

They pass through safely and come out in the trees. Merlin breathes easier then, though his memory won’t let him relax fully.   It’s not until they reach the edge of the woods where the Tower seems to grow right out from the rock that Merlin finally lets his guard down.

“Alright, Lancelot and I will go in. Father,” he can’t help it, he grins when he says it, “Percival, you both wait here.  If we’re not back by the time the sun hits those trees,” he points to the horizon, “come in after us.”

“Good luck,” Balinor says, and then adds a quick and somewhat gruff, “son.”

 _Son_! Merlin fights to keep his smile from growing even more ridiculous. Thankfully, Lancelot pulls him away towards the tower and the climb they have to make is enough to focus his concentration once again.

Once they’re out of earshot, and done climbing, Lancelot asks him, “You’ve done this before?”

“Yes.  I know what to expect. When we reach the door that uses the key you must stay well back. It is trapped and triggered to release a poison fog.  I can use my magic to clear that away.  Also, when I remove the egg from the pedestal it rests on it’s going to bring the whole tower down, so we need to be ready to run.”

Lancelot shakes his head in disbelief. “I can see why you wanted to come alone.”

“We’ll be fine,” Merlin tells him, unable to keep the grin off his face. “Trust me.”

“Oh, I do, Merlin.” Lancelot only sounds a little bit sarcastic and he bumps his shoulder into Merlin’s.

“Good. Come on then.” He’s anxious to bring the egg to his father, to see him call Aithusa from inside it. Merlin jogs down the long hallway and then up the first flight of stairs.  At the top is the peculiar lock just waiting for the Triskelion to be fit into it. “Stay back,” Merlin cautions and Lancelot waits halfway up the staircase.

Merlin pulls his kerchief up over his mouth and then takes the Triskelion out of his pack and slots it into place.  The fixture turns easily and the door grinds open. Almost immediately the mouths of the gargoyles set above the doorframe begin hissing out the poison mist.

He holds out a hand and commands, “Prosm tohweorfe.”  The deadly, roiling white fog dissipates after a few moments and the air clears.  Merlin pulls down the kerchief and takes a tentative inhale.  There’s an odd smell lingering that tingles his nostrils, but nothing more.  He turns to Lancelot. “Do you want to come? Or wait here?”

“I’ll follow you,” Lancelot says, climbing the steps. “I’ve seen your feet get the better of you sometimes, Merlin. I’d rather be on hand in case you need to be carried out of here.”

Merlin supposes he should be offended by that, but it’s quite true.  At least it used to be, but he doesn’t think it’s worth taking the time to explain the difference to Lancelot.  “Fair enough. Let’s go.”   

They continue down several corridors and then up more stairs which bring them to the spacious, pillared room where the egg waits on its pedestal. It’s as pretty as Merlin remembers.  He approaches the pedestal and puts his hands on either side of the egg, waiting. “Alright,” he warns Lancelot, “as soon as I lift the egg the ceiling is going to start coming down.  I’m going to grab it and run. Stick close to me.”

Lancelot shifts to a ready stance. He gives a quick nod.

Merlin sets his fingers carefully on both sides of the egg and then lifts it gingerly. The moment the bottom curve of it comes up off the stone Merlin can hear the grinding of some archaic machine or magic. He tucks the egg in close to his chest, pivots on one foot and begins to run. “Let’s go!”

He bolts past Lancelot, who follows right on his heels.  It’s a close thing, especially carrying the egg but they manage to dodge the falling masonry and find their way through the choking dust.  After they’re both out and scrambling down the steep side of the collapsing tower, Merlin wonders if it wasn’t easier the first time since he’d been acting purely on instinct. Knowing it was going to happen is almost worse.

They reach Balinor and Percival as the tower comes down completely.  Merlin turns to watch it for a moment.  He’d been so anxious to hide the egg from Arthur the last time that he really hadn’t seen just how complete the destruction was.

“So it _was_ trapped then?” Balinor asks wryly.

Merlin laughs.  “Apparently so.”  And then he approaches Balinor and holds out the egg that’s been safely cradled against his body. “I have it.”

Balinor takes it with the same reverence that Merlin had when he removed it from the pedestal. “I can scarcely believe it.”

“Will you call Kilgharrah then? To witness this?”

“Let’s wait until it’s dark.” Balinor suggests.

Which is a good idea, Merlin realizes.  Depending on where the dragon is, he might need to fly over populated areas to reach them and the last thing either of them need is rumors of dragons getting back to Uther.

“Right.” He says with an apologetic little tilt of his head. “I guess I was just a bit anxious.”

“As am I, my boy.”

“Back to the cave then?” Merlin swings a hand in a gesture that takes in himself, Percival and Lancelot. “We’ve not had a meal since breakfast and by the time we make it back, it’ll be time for dinner.”

Balinor nods. “I’ve a pot of stew that’s been simmering all day.” He hands the egg back to Merlin so Merlin can put it in his pack. “Let’s go.”

The journey back goes quick enough – everyone, it seems, is anxious to see the dragon hatched - that they reach the waterfall just as the sun dips below the trees.  Balinor insists on feeding them all and though the stew is tasty, they’re all scraping their spoons in empty bowls far too quickly for it to have been truly appreciated.

Balinor just shakes his head, chuckling. “I’d take that as a testament to my cooking if I didn’t know what you’re all waiting for.”  Not that he’s any less eager. He ushers them out to the mouth of the cave and looks around. “He should have enough room to land here.” He waves everyone back with one arm and lifts his head to the sky. “O drakon, e mala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes! Erkheo!”

Merlin feels the words vibrate through him, and feels his own magic surge up to respond.  He never got to experience what it was like to be in the presence of his father as a Dragonlord.   He wonders if it would have been different hearing and sensing it for the first time before he’d already been imbued with the Dragonlord’s powers himself.

“Is the dragon coming?” Percival leans close to Merlin to whisper.

“Yes. Though it might take some time if he’s very far away.” He looks up, scanning the horizon for any signs of the dragon approaching. 

Something catches his ear and he walks carefully over the slippery rocks to get a better look.

“Merlin?” Lancelot this time. He and Percival don’t seem inclined to join Merlin out in the open. He doesn’t blame them.

The still distant, but quite distinct, sound of leathery wings slapping against the wind catches his ear. He backs up to the tree line, leaving the riverbed open for Kilgharrah to land.

He’s just about to alert the others when hands grab at him from behind, one wrapping around his neck.

“You’re mine now!”  A knife comes up to Merlin’s throat at the same moment he realizes that it’s Borden who’s holding it.

The others rush forward but Borden’s shout stops them. “Stay back! Come any closer and I’ll cut his throat.”

“What do you want?” Merlin grits out, furious.  With Borden for being so stupid, and with himself, for having let him live.  Hadn’t he told Lancelot that he was through with forgiveness because mercy so very rarely paid itself back in kind?

“The dragon’s egg, of course.” Borden pants. “I know you have it.”

“You’re making a big mistake.” Merlin tells him, without an iota of sympathy.

The knife pushes tighter. Merlin can feel the pinch of it biting into skin. “You two,” Borden shouts, “drop the swords. And you,” he nods to Balinor, “bring me the egg.  If you hand it over, I’ll let the boy go.”

Balinor draws the egg out of Merlin’s bag and holds it out. “Is this what you’re after?” he asks, strangely calm.

“Yes!” Borden’s shout echoes right in Merlin’s ear. Merlin winces but that just gets the arm around his neck tightened.

“I don’t think he’s going to let you take it?” Balinor tells him, shaking his head.

That makes Borden snort. “You think this boy can stop me?”

Merlin’s father laughs. Laughs!  And then he shakes his head. “No, not the boy.” He looks up. “Him.”

All eyes look skyward and Merlin could shout with joy.  It’s Kilgharrah, hovering above them, surprisingly soundless.

For a moment the arms holding him captive slacken and Borden gasps.  Then he clings even tighter, jabbing the point of the blade into Merlin’s jaw.

“What have we here?”  The dragon’s voice is a gravelly rumble that Merlin can feel through the very rocks.

“He wishes to take the egg.” Balinor tells Kilgharrah.

Light as any bird, Kilgharrah sets down in the stream and his wagon-sized head drops low as his burning gaze fixes on Borden. “Is that so?”

“He wants to use it to gain power,” Merlin says, despite the blood he can feel trickling down into his collar.

“Quiet,” Borden hisses. “Be still.”

Merlin does no such thing.  “He thinks that having a dragon to command will bring him wealth and glory.” Again there’s a snapped, “Silent!” from behind him.

Kilgharrah actually seems to consider that. “Well, I suppose it would.”  Quick as a striking snake he darts his head closer to Borden and snaps his mouth shut. “Do you think to control me, human?”

“Nn… no.” Borden stutters.

Kilgharrah swings his head around, looking back at Balinor. Then it comes forward again and his upper lip peels back from a row of gleaming teeth. “You think to control my kin then? The unhatched one?”

“Nnn… no. Of course not.” The stench of fear-sweat assails Merlin’s nostrils, but for all his fear Borden is still holding firm to Merlin’s throat as well as the knife.

“Yet you said you wanted the egg.” Kilgharrah retorts, almost conversationally. Merlin has never been more reminded of a cat toying with a rodent. 

“Not to control,” Borden protests.

“Oh?” Kilgharrah swishes his tail in a sinuous arc. “What for then?”

“To….to…” Merlin waits, curious as to how Borden thinks he’s going to get out of this. “To keep it safe!” He declares, ignoring Merlin’s noisy snort. “I didn’t trust these men with it.” Obviously warming up to his story, Borden goes on. “I have dedicated almost half my life to finding the egg. It is nothing more than the conclusion to my life’s work than to see the egg protected.”

“Is that so?”

Merlin has enough experience with Kilgharrah’s tone to recognize sarcasm. Borden doesn’t.

“Yes. Yes of course.”

Kilgharrah rumbles out a considering noise. “And you think _yourself_ better equipped to this task than a Dragonlord?”

This time it’s Borden who scoffs. “The _boy_ is no Dragonlord.”

“No,” Balinor steps forward, placing a hand on Kilgharrah’s flank. “But I am.  And,” he continues, almost as menacing as the dragon himself. “I am also the _boy’s_ father.”

 _Don’t be stupid, Borden._ Merlin thinks. _Take it for the threat it is._

Borden _is_ stupid.  He jerks Merlin closer to his side and drags the knife along Merlin’s jaw; luckily it’s more for show because it doesn’t feel like it slices too deep.  “Then if you want him to live, you’ll cooperate.”

“I don’t think it’s going to work like that.” Merlin croaks out.

“It’s going to work however I say it is!” Borden is stupid _and_ close to panic. Not a safe combination for Merlin by any means.  “All of you, keep your distance.   Even you dragon,” he spits, “or I’ll have his blood spilling over the ground faster than you can move.”

Kilgharrah blinks lazily. “Is that so?”

Merlin glares at Kilgharrah as the knife digs in again.  Which is a good thing, because he catches the way that the dragon inhales and his massive frame goes still.  He doesn’t exhale.  Merlin flicks his gaze to his father, who gives him the faintest of nods.

Three things happen in rapid sequence:

Balinor shouts, “Now!”

Kilgharrah exhales a funnel of flame.

Merlin braces his feet, lifts his hand and hisses, “Scildan!”

The shield spell protects Merlin, but he can feel the heat of the flames as they pass by. 

Borden isn’t so lucky.

When he’d shifted Merlin to get better access to his neck he’d exposed his whole left side and Merlin’s purposefully cast the shield towards the right. The fire catches Borden’s left shoulder and elbow. He screams and flails, releasing Merlin, who drops to the ground beneath the path of the still gouting flame. Unfortunately for Borden, the spelled shield drops with him. 

Kilgharrah’s fire burns searing hot and Borden falls after he’s entirely engulfed.  His terrible screams last only a few moments, but his body continues to writhe even after the flames stop.  Merlin scrambles back from the burning, thrashing form and then throws one arm across his mouth to block out the oily black smoke and the smell of cooking flesh and flings the other straight out. “Ástríce!” He casts the spell with as much power as he can pull.  At its weakest it can knock men aside; at its most powerful it has the force to kill. 

What’s left of Borden goes still.

“Brimstréam!”   The second spell extinguishes the flames.  

“Merlin!”

He’s not sure who calls his name. He flops back onto the ground on his back and stares wearily at the stars.  Dimly he’s aware that there’s still blood trickling down his neck, but he doesn’t move until there are bodies standing over him, staring down.

“Are you alright?” His father asks, concern hooding his eyes.

“I…I’m fine,” he croaks out.  The heat of the dragon’s fire has dried his throat.

“Here,” Percival scrambles to hand down a water skin.

 _Oh hell_ , Merlin thinks blearily. _Percival_.  He takes the water skin gratefully and unplugs the stopper with his teeth before pouring a ridiculous amount over his face while managing to splash some in his mouth.  Laying down as he is, this isn’t the most productive way to get a drink, but it cools his skin and washes some of the stench away.  “So,” he says, trying his voice again. “I don’t suppose you didn’t see any of that?”

Percival accepts the flask when Merlin hands it back. “Any of what?” he asks, utterly guileless. 

Rolling his head to get a better look at the man, Merlin can see that despite his straight expression, Percival’s eyes are merry. “You knew!” he accuses.

“C’mon,” Percival holds out and arm and as soon as Merlin takes hold of it he hauls Merlin to his feet.  He sways slightly, but Lancelot is there to steady him with an arm.  “You’re wounded.” Percival lightly touches at the cut on Merlin’s neck. He pulls back his fingers, showing Merlin that they’re slick with blood.

“It’s not serious.” Merlin gently swipes his palm from chin to ear.  He can feel where the skin is split, it stings something fierce and his kerchief and collar are damp with blood, but he can tell it looks much worse than it actually is. “I’m fine.”

“Are you truly alright, Merlin?” Lancelot glances over Merlin’s shoulder and Merlin knows he’s looking at what must be the charred husk that was Borden.

“It was a horrible way to do it, but it had to be done.”

“He knew he there was no way out,” Balinor adds, still watching Merlin with an oddly gentle gaze. “He would’ve made sure to kill you first.”

Merlin’s about to say more when Percival suddenly backs up a step, looking past Merlin in concern.

Right. Kilgharrah.  He turns to the dragon. “Thank you, Kilgharrah.”

Kilgharrah lowers his head in an odd parody of a bow. “He threatened the last surviving dragon’s egg.” His big head rolls slightly sideward. “And you as well, young warlock. I could not let those trespasses go unpunished.”

“Come,” Balinor guides Merlin by the upper arm. “Let’s go away from here.” 

The men make their way back over to the mouth of the cave – Balinor and Lancelot helping Merlin over the slick rocks and burbling stream – while Kilgharrah merely turns with a few steps to face them.

“Balinor,” he says solemnly. “It has been many years.”

Balinor lowers his head. “And I am sorry, my old friend, for the part I played in your capture. Had I known what Uther—“

“Enough,” Kilgharrah cuts him off. “Uther was the one responsible for both those acts. You have been as much a prisoner as I. I hold no ill will towards you, Dragonlord.” A sound rumbles out of him that puts Merlin in mind of a purring cat. “And it is only fitting that you will be the one to bring another dragon into this world.”

“Thank you, Kilgharrah.”

“And who are these two?” Kilgharrah cocks his head eyeing the men behind Merlin with interest.

“These are my friends, Percival and Lancelot.” Merlin indicates each with a gesture.  Neither man seems to know quite what to do when introduced to a dragon. Percival nods his head and Lancelot gives a half-bow.

“Ahh, now Lancelot I have heard of.” 

“You have?” Lancelot asks. Percival stares at him in wonder.

“Of course,” Kilgharrah rumbles in amusement. “Your friend Merlin is quite fond of you.  One of the bravest and most noble men you’ve ever met, isn’t that right, Merlin?”

He knows Kilgharrah is trying to fluster him, but Merlin feels no shame in agreeing. “Absolutely.”

“Can I assume then, as he is counted as your friend, that young Percival is also a man who shares these selfsame traits?”

“Of course,” Merlin parrots the dragon’s words but says them with absolute surety.  Percival ducks his head, grinning.

“I’m glad you’ve such stalwart companions, young warlock.” He shifts, settling on his haunches. “Now, Dragonlord, if you will.” Kilgharrah lowers his head close to the rock where Balinor sets the teardrop-shaped egg.  

Merlin can once again feel the rush of Dragonlord magic tingling at his senses. He knows his father is searching for the name of the tiny creature waiting inside that fragile blue shell.

Balinor’s voice is deep and sonorous as he calls out, “Aithusa!”

The response from the egg is immediate. Merlin remembers watching this the first time, and even a second time through is no less joyful.  He never blamed Aithusa for the creature she became after her association with Morgana.   She was a victim of hatred and a heart turned to darkness as much as Morgana was.

“A white dragon,” Kilgharrah says proudly when Aithusa breaks free of the shell, stretching out her infant wings.  “And a fitting name, Dragonlord.”

“What does it mean?” Lancelot asks.  He and Percival are stood back, but watching with awe and fascination.

“Sun’s light, in the Dragon’s tongue.” Balinor explains.

Kilgharrah looks up at Merlin then. “No dragon birth is without meaning, young warlock. I think that in this case the meaning is clear: the white dragon bodes well for Albion, for you and Arthur, and for the land that you will build together.”

These are words that Merlin has heard before, but there’s an undercurrent to them that wasn’t there the last time. Merlin doesn’t know how to read it. Threat? Warning? Perhaps even hope?

Despite the joy of the occasion Merlin suddenly wants to rail against the dragon then.  He holds back a curse and all the questions and accusations that weigh down his tongue. “Damn you. Why did it all go so wrong then? Why did he have to die? We never got the chance to build that kingdom.  We didn’t get to see Albion together.”  He lets none of it out.  Instead he inclines his head in a simple acknowledgement of the words. “I can only hope you’re right, Kilgharrah.”

Balinor looks between them, frowning slightly.

“What happens now?” Percival’s voice comes from behind Merlin and he breaks eye contact with Kilgharrah to look over his shoulder.

“What do you mean?”

Percival indicates Aithusa, who is still sitting on the rock testing and flexing her wings and clawing at the air with tiny forelegs.  “Uh, what do you do with a baby dragon?” He sounds entirely out of his depth.

It’s Balinor who answers. “She will go with Kilgharrah. He will look after her in her infancy.” Kilgharrah bobs his head, confirming this. “It is the way of dragons to learn from their elders.”

Lancelot nudges Percival. “You were envisioning playing nursemaid to a baby dragon, weren’t you?”

“No, of course not.” A sheepish looking Percival nudges right back, jostling Lancelot a bit more than he probably intended considering that Lancelot nearly stumbles over.

“As soon as she finds the use of her wings, we will depart.” Kilgharrah informs them. “There are safe places we can go where she need not worry about being discovered.”

Aithusa is already trying to lift herself into the air, slender wings flapping faster and faster.  She gains a little altitude, snake-thin tail still draped over the rock but her rear legs hovering just above it, before bobbling and coming down. After another try, she manages a short flight from the rock to circle Balinor’s head.  She makes chirruping, clicking noises that sound pleased when she clumsily scrabbles at the rock to land.

“She’s almost ready.” Balinor’s tone is proud. “She’s a strong one.”

Merlin thinks about what she became in his other life. How she’d been held captive at the bottom of a narrow pit, no room to grow, unable to stretch her wings and develop her muscles.  She’d never even learned to talk. He’s always wondered about that.

“When will she be able to speak?”

“As with a human child she will learn her own language as she grows.  It will take longer for her to learn to speak your tongue and she will need help.”

“That’s something that Dragonlords do, Merlin.” Balinor adds. “When they first gained the power to communicate with the dragons, they in turn taught the dragons to speak as men.”

Merlin feels a rush of guilt then. He hadn’t known that.  It makes him wonder if he could’ve done better for the other Aithusa?  He’d never had a Dragonlord’s instruction, and though he could call a dragon and command it… that was all he knew.   He looks over at his father who is smiling, broadly, while watching the small white dragon fight the air.  This time he’ll get the chance to learn all he can.

“Dragonlord,” Kilgharrah says. “Call on me, often. We have much catching up to do.”

“I will, Kilgharrah.” Balinor agrees happily. “And when the little one needs instruction, come find me.”

“Of course.” The dip of his head that Kilgharrah gives is oddly formal.  Merlin knows there is something he’s missing. Before he can ask, Kilgharrah turns to him.  Merlin thinks he sees that odd reptilian grin.  It’s difficult to tell even under the almost full moon. “Now, young warlock.  You have held up your end of our bargain.  I am no longer the last.  I will honor mine. You will not see me again in Camelot unless you wish it. Should you have need of me, you need only call.”

“Right,” Merlin says hastily, “I will have my father summon you.”  He’s not sure if the dragon is deliberately trying to reveal Merlin’s Dragonlord abilities, or if he genuinely didn’t think before speaking.  With Kilgharrah it’s sometimes impossible to tell. 

“Of course,” Kilgharrah says with amusement.

Thankfully, before he can try to cause any more mischief, Aithusa gets herself aloft and this time she doesn’t come down. Hovering, she squawks impatiently at Kilgharrah.

Without another word Kilgharrah launches himself into the air. He lifts several hundred feet and then waits there for Aithusa to catch up to him.  She does so quickly, tiny wings flapping dozens of times to every one beat of his.  “Farewell!” The dragon calls down to them and then they both disappear over the trees.

“Now _that_ is something you don’t see every day.” Percival says with a slow shake of his head. “I’m going to need convincing come tomorrow that this wasn’t all just the result of some strong drink.”

Laughing, Lancelot pushes at his friend. “Don’t worry, Percival. Merlin and I will be there to remind you.” He claps Merlin on the shoulder. “And you. Let’s get that cut tended to properly, shall we?”

They return to the cave and the light of Balinor’s fire. 

It’s Balinor who cleans up the neat slice under Merlin’s jaw.  He applies some of the salve that Merlin recognizes from when he’d healed Arthur.   While he does that, Merlin needs the answer to a question. “Percival, how did you know?”

Percival looks up from where he’s rolling out their blankets. “About your magic?”

Merlin nods.

“That first night, when you invited us to your fire.”

What is he talking about? Merlin didn’t use any magic in front of Percival that he can recall.

Seeing Merlin’s confusion, Percival explains. “The campfire, Merlin. The smoke wasn’t rising like smoke should. It was following a set path into the trees.”

If Balinor weren’t currently kneeling down in front of Merlin, dabbing salve on his neck, Merlin would slap himself in the forehead with the flat of his hand. The fire, of course. He’d enchanted the smoke so that it would dissipate through the trees rather than straight up to the sky where it might have been seen from a distance. He’d completely forgotten about it when he’d restoked the fire to heat up food for Percival and Lancelot.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Lancelot asks, eyeing his friend with blatant puzzlement.

“Well I figured that since it wasn’t bothering you, I shouldn’t let it bother me.” He smiles. “It was a handy trick.”  The smile falls away slightly. “Cenred’s men like to make examples of sorcerers.”

“Funny that Cenred doesn’t seem to be above using magic when it suits him.” Lancelot grumbles.

Percival grunts an acknowledgement to that before he goes on. “There was a woman in my village who was a good friend to my mother. She was a bit like this Gaius you’ve spoken of, working with herbs and crafting potions.  Someone accused her of using magic in her craft and the guards well…” He lets that thought go unfinished, but Merlin can fill in what’s lacking. “My Mum always told me there was nothing wrong with what Leesil was doing.  So I know I’m supposed to hate and fear magic but I wasn’t raised that way.” He shrugs, “So, I don’t.  And I figured you’d tell me in your own time.”

When Merlin tries to stammer out the right words to thank him and tell him how desperately grateful he is for Percival’s understanding, Percival just waves it away.

Balinor finishes up and says softly, for Merlin’s ears alone, “You were right in what you told Kilgharrah about your friends.”

“Thank you, father.” Merlin says when he’s done, both for the efforts with his wound as well as the words.

Balinor still looks a little nonplussed at being referred to that way, but it makes his mouth quirk into a slight grin. “You’re welcome.”

Lancelot comes over to inspect Merlin’s neck once Balinor vacates the spot next to him. “You’ll have a neat little scar.” He exhales heavily through his nostrils. “It’s a good thing he didn’t go any deeper though.”  He stands and gestures for Merlin to do the same. “C’mon. We’ve had a long day and we’ve another long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Back to Camelot then?” Balinor asks as they start to get settled for the night.  If Merlin isn’t mistaken, he sounds just a hair disappointed.

“No.” Merlin shakes his head. “I go to Ealdor to see my Mother.” He blinks innocently. “Perhaps you should come along?”

“I cannot, Merlin.” Balinor says sadly. “I left Ealdor to keep your mother safe. I will not endanger her by returning.”

“But there is no danger anymore. Uther thinks you’re dead. He believes that there are no more Dragonlords left.”

Balinor squints at him. “How do you know this?”

“I am Arthur’s servant. I have been privy to much.” Hating the need, but desperate, Merlin scrambles for a convincing lie. “Not long before I released Kilgharrah there was a rumor about wyverns in one of Camelot’s villages.  Arthur was ordered to ride out, and I was to go with him. Before we left Uther came to speak to Gaius to ask him about what should be done if the rumors were true.  Uther said that it was a shame that there were no more Dragonlords to handle the problem. Gaius, of course, agreed with him.  Father,” Merlin implores, “he doesn’t know you’re still alive.  He won’t be searching for you. You can go back to her.”

Balinor has the look of a man torn between following his heart or his head. “She won’t even remember me, boy.”

“She will,” Merlin insists. “She’s never remarried and it’s not for lack of suitors.  You were the only one for her.” 

“Then she’ll hate me for having left her.”

Merlin wants to throw his hands up in the air in aggravation. He’s never seen a man so eager to give up his best chance at happiness (well, except for Lancelot and he can only hope that Lancelot is paying attention). “She doesn’t hate you, father.  She misses you.  She didn’t speak of you often because she wanted to protect you (which is a truth Merlin learned after Balinor’s death) but when she did, I could hear it in her voice.   She still has hope, you know. ” He swipes angrily at his eyes, hating the way they’re betraying him. He needs to be the strong one, damn it all. “Hope that you’re alive. That you’ll come back to her. That we could be a family.”

Balinor bows his head and says nothing for a long while.  He sighs heavily, a whole body motion that seems to be made of resignation and resolution.  “I will think on it, Merlin.”

“Thank you.”

“Now—“

“Yes, sleep. I know.” Merlin interrupts, because he’s getting used to being told to go to sleep.  Fortunately he’s exhausted so he falls asleep between one blink and the next.

When he wakes up the next morning, Balinor is gone.

Merlin scrambles up from the tangle of his blanket and bedroll and goes to shake Percival and Lancelot awake. “Balinor is gone.” He tells them urgently.  

They join Merlin in searching the cave. Balinor’s belongings – few though they may be - are still there, but there’s no sign of the man in the cavern or just outside.

“I’m sure he’s coming back.” Percival says, though he doesn’t sound certain.

“Or,” Merlin retorts bitterly, “he didn’t want to face me when we left, and so he chose to be a coward.”

“Merlin,” Lancelot chides. “That’s not a very gracious thing to say.  He helped us get to the Tower and with the dragon. All that on top of learning you were his son in just the span of hours.  You must give him time.”

Merlin wants to object to everything that Lancelot is saying, but he knows his friend is right. Getting Balinor to agree to come to Ealdor was a longshot at best.  He slumps down onto the rocks. “I suppose you’re right, Lancelot. I was just…” he clenches a fist. “Things were going so well and he really seemed to consider it. I just thought he’d want to come back with me.”

Lancelot sits down next to him. “He may yet return to Ealdor, Merlin.  Trust me when I say that it’s not always easy to be told that everything you’ve ever wanted can be yours.” His grin is self-deprecating. “Sometimes we spend so much of our lives telling ourselves that it’s best for everyone if we just let them be that it gets hard to believe anything else.”

“Are you saying you’re going to actually try to find your own happiness, Lancelot?”

“Well, my happiness resides in Camelot, where I am currently not welcome.” Despite the bleak words he’s still grinning, and his shrug bumps a shoulder into Merlin’s. “But let’s just say that the next time I find myself with an opportunity, that Prince of yours is going to get a run for his money.”

For the sake of Arthur’s future, Merlin is glad that Gwen is in Camelot.  For the sake of his friend, Merlin wishes Lancelot could come back there with him.   “I’ll hold you to that, Lancelot.” Using Lancelot’s shoulder as a brace, Merlin pushes to his feet. “And at least I can be happy that one person I care for is going to follow their heart.”

Percival, who’s been quietly and unobtrusively stowing their gear, chuckles. “You don’t need to worry about me, Merlin.  I’m following my heart.”

Lancelot exhales noisily. “Yes, but for you that means killing as many of Cenred’s men as you can.”

“Yes, exactly. And it makes me very happy.” They all share a laugh at that.

Spirits lifted – at least somewhat – Merlin joins them in getting packed up and setting things back to order.  He hates to leave without Balinor, but he knows where his father is (alive and safe enough) and he can come back another time and try again to convince him.

They left their horses tethered about half a mile downstream (since they couldn’t be ridden through the cave and also Merlin didn’t want them getting spooked by the dragon) and Percival offers to fetch them. So when Merlin hears Percival calling their attention only a few minutes after he left (not nearly enough time to get to them and get back), he hurries to the mouth of the cave in a panic, with Lancelot right behind him.

For a moment when he steps out of the shadowed recesses of the cave the sun’s light – even indirect through the trees – is almost blinding. When his vision clears he sees Percival returning with twice the number of horses than he should have.  He blinks, and then realizes Percival isn’t alone.  Balinor is with him.

“Sorry I’m late, my boy.” Balinor calls out with a smile (although there are lines of tension around his eyes). “I’m glad to see you boys didn’t leave without me.”

Joy rushes through Merlin. He can feel it as an almost physical thing, like sinking into warm bathwater.  Balinor is coming with them!

When he nears enough that he can be heard without shouting, Balinor explains, “I had to head all the way to Enged to buy horses. And finding a horse trader willing to sell before dawn took a bit more doing than I’d planned.” He must be able to read the lingering doubt that’s still leaving Merlin’s eyes because he adds. “I’m sorry if I worried you.”

Merlin tries to be nonchalant. “I wasn’t worried.”  Behind him, Lancelot coughs. “Uh, why the extra horse?” Merlin asks, deliberately ignoring his friend.

Balinor nods towards the cave. “I don’t expect I’ll come back here.  I don’t have much to my name, but I’d like to bring with me what I can.”

When Merlin realizes what that means – that Balinor plans to _stay_ in Ealdor – he feels his whole body spasm with something indescribable. He wants to hug his father, but doesn’t know if it would be welcome.  He puts that energy to use instead. “Come on,” he signals for everyone to join him. “Let’s get you packed up!”

Between the four of them it doesn’t take long to load up the pack horse (Balinor wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t have much) and they ride out before the sun is even at its apogee. 

Ealdor is in the central part of Cenred’s kingdom, some thirty leagues south. It takes them two days of hard riding to reach the Ridge of Essetir. They encounter Cenred’s men once, and bandits twice (the first group tries their luck, the second passes them by).  Neither are much of a fight especially as Merlin doesn’t have to hide his magic (he has no intention of letting _anything_ happen to Balinor).

Though they bed down late and break camp early, Merlin and his father spend their late evening hours by the campfire talking. Merlin wants to learn as much as he can about being a Dragonlord, while Balinor wants to know more of Merlin’s life (especially the earlier years with his mother).  The two day trip does much to forge a bond between them.

The mood amongst the group grows more and more anxious as they ride towards Ealdor and the first signs of the small village can be spotted.  Merlin points out things that Balinor might recognize: the mill along the river, the crumbing farmhouse that was lost to a fire long before Merlin was born but no one has seen fit to tear down, the fields where Farmer Rudolf grows his wheat.  The town itself is small and bordered by simple fencing – nothing at all like the walls of a keep – but Merlin has always felt secure within.

They walk the horses single file down the main road with Merlin leading. Villagers look upon them curiously, a few talking and pointing and Merlin knows he’s been recognized.   Before they reach the path that leads to the house, he spies his mother carrying a basket of linens and calls out to her. “Mother!”

She’ll always know his voice.  She turns and spots him, and Merlin slides off his horse before he’s even had a chance to draw on the reins. He runs to meet her and catches her up in a crushing hug.

“Merlin!” she kisses his cheek and hugs him tighter a moment.  “There you are! I need to tell—“

He cuts her off, too excited to listen to whatever she wants to take him to task for (likely not writing as often as he should), and tugs her with him to where the others are just dismounting. “Mother you must come and see.”

“Merlin!  Would you please list….”

Hunith trails off as Balinor steps around his horse.  She gasps and her hands fly up to cover her mouth.

“Yes,” Merlin tells her, nudging her forward (she’s practically gone frozen on the spot). “I found him. I found my father.”

“Hunith.” Balinor takes a hesitant step forward, hands clenched at his sides.  When she continues to stare at him wordlessly he takes still another step and then another – Merlin watches with his breath caught – until he’s only an arm’s distance from Hunith. “I’m so sorry,” he says, voice creaking like it’s gone rusty with disuse.

Merlin looks to his mother. _Go to him_ , he thinks anxiously.

“Balinor?” Hunith whispers from behind her trembling fingers. “Is that really you?”

“Yes, Hunith. It’s me.” He reaches out a tentative hand.

Merlin wants to shout for joy when his mother reaches back.   The moment their hands touch Hunith flies forward and Balinor tugs her to him and Merlin has to lift his handkerchief to wipe his eyes when they embrace.

“How did this happen?” Merlin hears his mother ask. “I thought you were lost to me… I never knew. Why did you never come back to me?” Always a strong woman, she doesn’t sob, but Merlin can hear the break in her voice.

“Shhhh, love.” Balinor whispers back, one hand coming up to stroke her cheek. “I only wanted to keep you safe.  I thought I was protecting you by staying away.” He kisses the top of her forehead. “I came back because your… because _our_ son found me.”

They both turn slightly, arms still tight around each other, and Merlin sees his mother hold out an arm to him.  He takes a step forward, to be welcomed into this moment with his … his _family_.

“Merlin!”

The voice stops him cold.

It’s Arthur.

 _No. Oh no!_ Panic floods him in a tidal rush that starts in his lungs and pushes out to his every limb, making his toes and fingers tingle.  What the hell is Arthur doing in Ealdor?

Hunith’s hand flies to her mouth again and shakes her head sadly. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I tried to tell you they were here.”

They?

“ _Mer_ lin!”

He can practically feel Arthur’s glare on the back of his neck.  He shakes his head at Balinor when he starts to draw away from Hunith (To protect him?  To confront Arthur? He has no idea but he does know that it’ll only make things worse). “No. I’ve got this.”

Merlin takes a deep and calming breath – that does nothing for his nerves whatsoever – and then slowly turns around. 

Arthur is standing a few yards away looking … devastated. Furious and confused and sad and… worst of all, betrayed.

“Arthur,” Merlin begins, “I can explain –“

“No!” Arthur grits out. “You can’t.  Because your mother isn’t sick, Merlin. Imagine my surprise when I come to her door and ask after her health and she tells me she has _no idea_ what I’m talking about. Oh, and not only that, she asks _me_ where you might be because she hasn’t seen you. Because you _weren’t here_!”

“Arthur,” Merlin tries again.

“You lied to me, Merlin.” Arthur’s eyes have gone flinty and his mouth is twisted in a grimace. “You lied to me and I trusted you and…” He grinds down on whatever else he’s going to say as his mouth snaps shut.

From behind him Merlin hears another voice. “Arthur, wait.” It’s Lancelot.  Merlin groans.  He knows his friend is just trying to help, but it’s only going to exacerbate things.

Arthur looks past Merlin for a moment (who’s relieved to have that accusatory gaze off him even for a second) and his eyes go wide when they spot Lancelot and then narrow dangerously again.  The hard line of his mouth gains a bitter slant. “Oh I might’ve known,” he practically spits.

“Arthur, please listen.” Merlin begs.

Arthur swipes a decisive hand through the air. “No. I’m done listening to you, Merlin.” He turns on a heel and abruptly stalks away.

Merlin can only stare after him. He feels a hand – his mothers, he’ll always know the feel of it – curl gently over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Merlin,” she says.  “They arrived yesterday. I didn’t know what they were doing here.  If I’d known …” she trails off a moment. “Well, I’d have done a sight better at covering for you, that’s for sure.”

 Numb, Merlin can only ask. “Who else is here?”

“The Lady Morgana and her maidservant Gwen.”

Merlin stomach sinks further… which he would’ve thought impossible since it feels like it’s already made a home in his feet.  

“I’d better go after him.” He says after a long silence.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Lancelot asks, coming up to stand at Merlin’s shoulder. “He looked… well, I’ve never seen him so angry.”

That’s the worst part, Merlin thinks. “Neither have I.”  He tries the deep breath again. It’s still not very effective. “I’ll be okay Lancelot.  I… I need to talk to him.”

“Do you want someone to go with you?” That’s Percival, and if Merlin weren’t so heartbroken right now, he’d probably be incredibly touched by how his friends are trying to protect him.

“Son,” Balinor says  - and Merlin hates, _hates_ that he can’t even feel the joy of being called that at this moment – “I’ve seen men angry like that. Give him some time to himself, to cool down.  If you go to him now, he won’t hear you above the anger.”

It’s wise advice. And the very few times he’s ever seen Arthur close to this enraged he’d spent hours in the rain hacking and slashing at a target dummy until he could barely lift his sword arm. Merlin knows how stubborn he can be. “You’re probably right father.” He sighs, heavily. “I just don’t understand what he’s even doing here.” Merlin says plaintively. “It makes no sense.”

“I think it has something to do with the Lady Morgana,” his mother says. “She and Gwen are at the house if you want to find out.”

As if he couldn’t feel terrible enough.  Merlin is suddenly struck by yet another worry. Morgana wouldn’t have come without a good reason. “I’d better do that,” he agrees.  He looks from his mother to his father and gives a faltering smile. “I’m sorry to have spoiled your reunion with…” he waves a hand, unsure how to indicate everything, “all this.”

“Nonsense,” his mother tells him, and she smiles adoringly up at Balinor. “We’re here together. I don’t think anything could spoil this for us.”

Balinor looks like he’s been clubbed over the head, but in a good way.  Merlin allows himself a small smile at that.

His mother makes shooing motions at him. “You go and talk to Morgana. I’ll take care of things with your friends—“

“Oh, Mother I’m sorry!” He’d completely forgotten to introduce Percival and Lancelot.

“Merlin,” she chides, “just go. I can sort things out just fine.  There are plenty of folk who can put them up for the night.  Plus, Storen and Anna are out of the village for a few days also. I’m looking after their house.  I’ll be there with your father if you need me.” She smiles up at Balinor again and then at Merlin. “We’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

 _Oh!_   Right. Merlin decides then and there that he won’t need either of them tonight – no matter what happens.  He’ll give them the privacy they not only need, but deserve, to reunite properly. 

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Now go.” She shoos him away again.

He hurries down the lane to the house he grew up in.

“Merlin!” Morgana says as soon as he opens the door. “There you are!”

“Oh, Merlin.” Gwen is wringing her hands. “We were so worried.  We didn’t know where you were. Where have you been?”

“Gwen, Morgana.” He nods at each of them in turn, ignoring Gwen’s question for now. “It’s good to see you.  And I’m fine as you can tell.”

“Has Arthur found you yet?” Morgana asks.

Merlin knows the look on his face must give it away.  

“Oh, dear.”

“Perhaps I’d better go talk to him,” Gwen suggests.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Gwen.” Merlin tells her. “He’s… I think he needs some time alone.”  He feels like an absolute heel for the next thing he says, but he needs to be alone with Morgana. He can’t send Gwen to Arthur, but he has no other idea how to get her out of the house. “Lancelot is here.”

“What?” Gwen gasps. “What do you mean?”

“I ran into him, purely by chance, on the road. And he came with me here. It’s a very long story.”

For a moment Merlin worries that it’s not going to work. Gwen looks like she’s not planning on going anywhere.  “How… how is he?” She asks after a moment of chewing her lip.

Merlin manages to drum up a smile. It feels false but Gwen must be too distracted to notice. “Why don’t you go and ask him yourself.”

She looks to Morgana, who nods encouragingly. “Go on.”

Gwen puts a hand on his arm before she leaves. “Thank you, Merlin.”

He has no idea what for, but he doesn’t stop her to ask. As soon as she’s out of the house he drops to the bench across from Morgana and hisses out. “What’s happened?”

Morgana looks startled. “How did you know something happened?”

“You wouldn’t be here if something hadn’t happened, Morgana.” Merlin says with just a hair of frustration.

Morgana purses her lips and then shrugs. “Well, I’m not too sure about _that_ , but still, you’re right.”

Yet another statement from a woman that Merlin has no earthly idea how to interpret. He ignores it for the matter at hand. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a girl, Merlin. A druid girl.  She was brought into Camelot by a bounty hunter. He’s given her over to Uther.”

“Freya.”

He doesn’t realize he’s said the name out loud until Morgana rocks back. “Yes, that’s her name. Do you know her?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head. “I… saw her.  In a dream again.” He swallows and tastes bile. “What’s Uther done to her?” He braces for the worst.  Hanging? Burning? Beheading?  Which is the lesser of those evils?

As if she can read his mind, Morgana hurriedly shakes her head. “No, Merlin. She’s still alive. Uther put her in the dungeons.  If you saw her in a dream, do you know about her curse?”

Merlin nods, feeling relief coursing through him.  Uther didn’t have her immediately put to death?  He almost can’t fathom the thought.

“Well, it was witnessed by Uther himself.   The dungeons could barely contain the beast she becomes.  Uther had her brought before him during the day and she swore to him that she’d been cursed through no fault of her own.” Morgana sneers. “She said a man attacked her, tried to… to hurt her, and she was only protecting herself and she killed him, accidentally. No more than he probably deserved.” She gives a vicious little smirk. “Anyway, Freya said the man’s mother was a sorceress who laid this curse upon her as vengeance for the loss of her son. Gaius spoke up for her. He told Uther about curses like the one she was stricken with. He called her a Bastet.”

“What is Uther going to do with her?”

“He’s sent his men out for the Sorceress who did this to her or witnesses to the death of her son. He wants to bring her to trial before passing judgment. He also asked Gaius if he could find a way to break this curse.”

“Wow,” Merlin sits back, stunned by that news. “That’s…” he can’t find a proper word for it.

“Amazing?” Morgana suggests. “Unbelievable? Miraculous?”

“All of those things, yes.” Merlin says with a weak chuckle.

“Could you do it, Merlin? Could you break the curse?”

He could save Freya.   This, on top of everything else that has already happened today – his parents, Arthur – it’s almost too much.  He puts his hands over his face and rests his elbows on the table.

“Merlin?” he hears Morgana ask, concern in her voice. “Are you alright?  You suddenly went pale.”

Merlin sucks in a breath between the gaps of his fingers. He pushes it back out slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine, Morgana. Just… it’s been a really, really long day.”

When he feels he’s got a modicum of control again, he lifts his head off his hands. “Is that why you’re here? You and Arthur and Gwen?”

Morgana shakes her head. “No. That’s due to Arthur.” Her face goes suddenly sympathetic. “He asked Gaius about your mother and her illness. I think he was trying to get a read on when you might be coming back.” Her smile flits back a moment. “He really is hopeless without you.  So, when Gaius professed that he didn’t know what Arthur was talking about, well… Arthur grew concerned.”

“So you all came here?”

“Well, Arthur needed an excuse to leave Camelot and he asked if I’d help him in that regard.  Since I wanted to find you to tell you about the druid girl, I agreed.   I told Uther that the anniversary of my Mother’s death was weighing on me, and that I wanted to spend some time with my childhood nurse. She lives in a small village like this one not far from here.” Morgana looks devilishly pleased at her own cunning. “And of course he sent Arthur along to look after me.”

She frowns.  “Merlin, if I’d known what you were really doing, that you weren’t here for your mother, I would never have come. I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you and Arthur.” The frown becomes puzzlement. “What were you really doing?”

Merlin sighs. “It’s a very long story, Morgana. And I will tell it all to you someday, I promise.  But, in the meantime, I need to fix things with Arthur.” He lets out another mournful breath. “I really don’t think he’s going to forgive me.”

“Merlin, I’ve known Arthur almost all of my life. He’s practically a brother to me,” Merlin does _not_ flinch at that, “and if there’s one thing I’ve learned about him it’s that his biggest fear is failing those he cares about.   He probably looks at the fact that you weren’t honest with him,” Merlin appreciates that she couches it in gentler terms, “as a failing on himself.  About how he wasn’t… good enough to you that you could trust him.”

“But that’s ridiculous.” Merlin is compelled to argue. “I do trust him. I would tell Arthur _everything_ , if I could. The only reason I don’t is because I don’t ever want to put him in a position where he would feel he has to choose between who he is as a person and who he needs to be as a Prince.”

“Well tell him that, then.”

“Morgana.” Merlin shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“No,” she chides. “Not about the,” her voice drops to a whisper, “magic. But give him some of the truth. As much as you can.  And explain to him what you’ve just told me. That you didn’t lie to him to hurt him, but to protect him.”

“And you think that will stop him being angry?”

“Oh, no.” She titters and Merlin scowls. “Not right away. He’s an overgrown child sometimes and he’s terribly stubborn.  He’ll probably resent the fact that you thought to protect him in the first place.” She reaches out to place a hand over his. “But he’ll calm down eventually, and see reason.  He doesn’t _want_ to be mad at you Merlin, and that just makes him all the angrier.” 

She’s right, and Merlin knows that.  He shifts off the bench seat and stands.

“Where are you going?” Morgana asks.

“Uh, to talk to Arthur.”

“I thought you wanted to wait to give him some time to cool down first?”

Merlin sighs. “I’d like to, Morgana, I really would. But we need to get back to Camelot so I can help save Freya.  I just don’t have the time to let Arthur sulk.”

Morgana thinks about this for a moment and then tilts her head just slightly in the barest nod. “Tread carefully, Merlin.”

“I will.” He stops at the door. “Thanks.  You know, for the advice and also coming to find me.”

“Of course,” she smiles. “What are friends for?”

As Merlin steps outside he realizes he doesn’t feel the same ominous sense of dread that those words might once have engendered.  He genuinely feels that Morgana is sincere when she says things like that.  It makes that growing spark of hope he feels about this future – Arthur’s future – burn just that much brighter. 

Even in the short time he’s been back to set things right, so many things seem to be turning out for the better (well, except Arthur being furious with him, but he hopes to fix that): Morgana is embracing her magic without hate to guide it, Uther is tempering his decisions on sorcery with compassion, Kilgharrah is free with no harm done to Camelot, his father and mother have been reunited, and Lancelot is alive and…

Standing very close to Gwen.

Merlin ducks to hide behind a fence. He doesn’t want to get caught eavesdropping, but he feels this might be an important conversation to witness.

“You said that your feelings for me would never change.” Lancelot is saying.  Merlin wonders when Gwen said such a thing?  In Hengist’s keep?

“You left, Lancelot.” Gwen retorts. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I know, Gwen, and for that I will never be able to apologize enough. I thought that it was for the best.  There was Arthur….” Merlin hears a weighty sigh. “He did _not_ come to rescue you for Morgana’s sake. He came because he cares for you and I would not stand in the way of that.”

There’s a soft thump, and Merlin can picture Gwen stamping a foot onto the well-trod path. “So you would just give me over to some other man, without a care as to how I felt about you?  Do my feelings matter so little?”

“Your feelings matter more than anything, Gwen.” Lancelot is impassioned. “As does your happiness.  I left you that day because I knew that just as I was not yet worthy to be a Knight of Camelot, I was also not worthy of the faith you showed in me.  All that I said to you in Hengist’s keep still holds true.  I have not become the man I wish to be.”

Merlin would argue that. 

“Also,” Lancelot continues. “Arthur is not just _any_ other man. He is noble and brave and one of the best men I’ve ever known. And someday he will be a great King.” There is genuine admiration in his voice beneath the regret.

“Yes,” Gwen agrees, “he will be a great King. But a _King_ still, who will never be allowed to marry a servant, no matter how much he may care for me.  I won’t lie to you Lancelot. I’ve come to care for Arthur a great deal. But I also know that Arthur and I can never be.” Her admission is frank, but Merlin can hear the tears threating in her wavering tone.

“He will wait for you.” Lancelot insists. “You deserve a man who would devote that much of himself to you.”

“Don’t I get to decide what kind of a man I deserve?” Gwen implores. “Why can I not deserve a man who would sacrifice his own happiness to ensure mine?”

“Gwen, I—“

Gwen interrupts whatever protest he’s about to make with a frustrated noise. “Tell me this, Lancelot.  Do you not care for me as I care for you? If that is the case, if I have misunderstood, then please tell me so, now.”

Merlin almost doesn’t hear Lancelot’s softly spoken, “You have not misunderstood, Gwen.  My heart is yours.”

“And mine could be yours if you’d only accept it.”

There are soft sounds: boots sliding on dirt, clothes rustling, and Merlin doesn’t have to peek around the corner to know they’ve embraced.  He doesn’t know what to do.  He _wants_ Lancelot to be happy - hell, he’s pushed Lancelot down this path - but what of Arthur?  Does a future where Arthur survives mean a future without Gwen as his queen? 

If that is the price for Arthur’s life, and the future of Albion, is it one Arthur would pay?  Merlin doesn’t think he can answer that question. At least not now, at this point in Arthur’s life.  If this were Arthur as King, he knows what the answer would be; but this Arthur has barely acknowledged his feelings for Gwen, to say nothing of having acted upon them.  He is self-sacrificing enough that he would give over his own life to save Camelot. Would he give up on a future with Gwen to assure that as well?

Ducking between two houses (because he’s just not up to interrupting whatever is going on between Gwen and Lancelot) and then jumping a fence into a cabbage field, Merlin goes in search of Arthur.  Ealdor is a small village, and it doesn’t take him long to walk the perimeter of it.  When Arthur is nowhere to be found inside the village, Merlin expands his search.

He remembers the last time Arthur came with him to Ealdor, how Arthur had taken watch, and heads for the forest.   Under the cover of the woods he uses his ability to ‘see’ the path to look for Arthur.  With it, he finds Arthur not too far away – sword out and hacking at slender trees – and slowly makes his way through the underbrush. He shuffles his feet and snaps twigs and makes as much noise as he can. The last thing he wants to do is startle Arthur when he’s armed and angry.

Merlin knows he’s been heard. There’s no way Arthur doesn’t know that someone is approaching. Still, when he gets within a few body lengths Arthur whirls around, sword at the ready. He doesn’t lower it all that much when he sees who it is. “Merlin,” he says flatly.

“What are you doing out here?” Merlin asks, because it’s a safe conversation starter.

“The big fellow, Percival, mentioned you’d run into bandits on your way here. I thought I’d look to see if there’s any activity too close to the village.

“You spoke with Percival? When?”

Arthur slashes another sapling out of his way. “Just a bit ago. He was settling your horses in the stable. Well, the barn with that temperamental mule.” He snorts. Merlin thinks it’s supposed to be something of a laugh, but it certainly doesn’t sound amused.

“Oh, I must’ve just missed you. I’ve been looking…,” he trails off.  “Look, Arthur—“

“No, Merlin.” Arthur interrupts, voice rising in pitch.  He takes a noticeable breath and when he speaks again his tone is even and flat. “No, Merlin, let me speak.” He drops his gaze, seems to realize he’s still got the sword in his hand and sheaths it.  Then he looks rather at a loss as to what to do with his hands. He settles with clasping them behind his back and staring into middle distance.  It reminds Merlin of Arthur’s ‘reporting unpleasant news to his father’ stance and it makes his stomach clench.

“It’s become clear to me that I suffered under a misconception.  I’d thought…,” he trails off, scowls and tries again. “I’d thought we were friends.”

Merlin heart sinks.

“But we are—“

Arthur shoots him a look that’s as cold as any Merlin has ever seen. He closes his mouth with a snap that jars his teeth.  Assured of Merlin’s quiet, Arthur once again focuses somewhere further on in the woods.

“I’d forgotten,” Arthur continues forcefully, “that you are merely my servant and I your lord. And as such, you’re expected to behave in certain ways that would give one the... the… erroneous belief that things were different.   I realize now that I’ve misjudged the situation.” Arthur’s throat works a swallow that looks forced (Merlin can’t blame him, his own feels as if his very heart has taken up residence). “In light of this realization I think it would be best that when I return to Camelot, should you decide to return also, we end your employment.”

“Arthur,” Merlin cries out. It’s almost a whine but Merlin doesn’t care how pathetic it makes him appear. “No. You can’t mean that.  I know I made a mistake—“

“A mistake? How is lying to me a—.” Once again, Arthur’s tone starts to peak and he stops himself.  Merlin can see him physically trying to retain whatever semblance of calm he’s attempting to portray.

“Arthur, please. Just let me explain.”

“The time for explanations is past, Merlin. I’ve made my decision.  It’s your choice if you want to return to Camelot, but I’m riding back in the morning.  Either way,” he turns to look at Merlin face on, locking their eyes, “you’re no longer my servant.  We’re done.”  He holds Merlin’s gaze for a long moment and then turns his whole body away.

Merlin reaches out to grab his arm, stopping him even as he starts to stalk past.  

Arthur jerks his arm out of Merlin’s grasp. “Lay your hand on me again and I’ll cut it off,” he growls out.

“Arthur! Sire, just listen to me, please!”

He is ignored. Arthur keeps striding away, not letting the tangling brush or low hanging branches slow him in the least.

Desperate, Merlin shouts, “It was my father, Arthur!  I found out that he was alive and I needed to find him.   Arthur, please.  If this was your Mother you’d have done the same.”

Arthur stops abruptly. Merlin sees his shoulders roll back and then he’s spinning an about-face and storming back to Merlin.  He’s furious. “Don’t you dare speak of my mother.”

Merlin flinches back, stumbling when his feet catch on exposed tree roots.  He windmills his arms, but he’s just too off balance and ends up falling on his backside, barely managing to get his elbows beneath him as he lands with a huff. 

When he looks up Arthur is standing over him. There’s concern on his face, but it vanishes the moment he realizes Merlin is looking at him, to be replaced by a hard mask.  Still, that brief glimpse gives Merlin hope that maybe he can salvage this.

“Arthur, I never knew my father.” He starts softly, his tone as low and soothing as it would be when gentling a spooked horse. “He was gone before I was born. I knew so little of him.  My mother never spoke of him. I always assumed… I always thought he was dead.  But then I discovered that he’s not.  Arthur, I had to find him.”

“And?”

“And I did.  I set out to look for him and I only ran into Lancelot by accident.  He and Percival were hunting down Cenred’s patrols along the border. It was pure chance that they found me.   But they came along to help me find my father and we managed to track him down.   It wasn’t easy to convince him of who I was, nor to come back to Ealdor with me, but he did.” He takes a breath, feeling oddly lightheaded. “The man with my Mother earlier. I don’t know if you saw him, but that was my father. I brought him home to her, Arthur. To my mother.”

Just the thought of it – his parents reunited - makes Merlin’s eyes water, but Arthur just stares down dispassionately.

“See, Merlin.” Arthur gestures with a pointer finger, circling it vaguely in front of him. “Everything you just explained?  That’s the kind of stuff I’d have expected someone who was truly your _friend_ to know.  In fact, going on a dangerous journey to track down your long lost father, is exactly the kind of thing you’d ask your _friend_ to help you with.   I noticed you had no trouble inviting Lancelot and your new friend Percival along to help.” He smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “So you can see why it’s clear to me that you and I were never friends.”

“That’s not why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell you the truth _because_ we’re friends.”

Arthur scowls. “That makes no sense, _Mer_ lin.”

Merlin’s not sure if Arthur saying his name that way is a good sign, or bad. He hopes for good. “I can explain; if you’ll just let me.”

Arthur stares down at him for what seems like a very long time. His expression is tight – jaw clenched and nostrils flared – but his eyes are lost in a way that Merlin’s seen only rarely.  Finally he gives a breathy snort.

“Get up, Merlin. You look like an idiot.” 

To Merlin’s surprise Arthur holds out a hand.  When Merlin takes hold of it Arthur practically yanks his arm out of his socket when he hauls him to his feet; still, Merlin _does_ take it as a good sign that Arthur didn’t just leave him lying.

Rubbing at his shoulder, Merlin follows when Arthur starts to walk away.  Instead of heading back to the village, as Merlin thought they were, Arthur leads him over to a fallen log. “Sit.” Arthur directs.

Dutifully, Merlin settles on the log. Luckily it’s broad enough that he can sit rather comfortably without fear of toppling over the back.  Arthur doesn’t sit next to him, but he does prop a hip against a higher branch, relaxing his stance just a fraction and crossing his arms. “Alright,” Arthur instructs again, “talk.”

“Arthur,” Merlin begins slowly. This isn’t going to be an easy thing to explain and he doesn’t want to misspeak. “I didn’t tell you the truth about my father because I wanted to protect you.”

He realizes it’s the wrong thing to say almost immediately. Arthur’s face darkens. “Protect me?” he repeats with a scoff. “What do _I_ need protecting from?”

“Well, maybe that’s not quite the right way of putting it. There’s something about my father that I couldn’t tell you because it would be,” he struggles for a way to say it without saying it, “a conflict of interest.”

“A conflict of interest?” Arthur again parrots.  “What the hell does that mean?”  He’s stopped scowling, but the suspicion that’s replaced it isn’t that much better.

“Arthur, I have to ask something of you that’s going to seem, well, ridiculous. And maybe impossible. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “It’s the thing I didn’t want to ask. The reason I didn’t tell you the truth.”

Suspicion gives way to utter bafflement. “What are you on about?”

“Look,” Merlin twists on the log, bringing one leg up so that he can face Arthur head on. “I’m asking you to keep a secret.”

“A secret.” Arthur (yet again!) echoes, flatly.

“Yes, Arthur. I need your word that what I’m about to tell you is something you’ll keep secret.”

“Merlin, you know I can’t promise that. What’s more, I’m not sure you deserve it.”

Merlin sighs and lets his whole body slump (his shoulder twinges when it droops).  There’s nothing else to be done. “Then, I…  I guess you’ll have to sack me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No, Arthur.” Merlin shakes his head vehemently. “That’s _not_ what I want. I _want_ to be able to tell this to you.”

Arthur lets out an aggravated noise that’s almost a groan. “Then tell me!”

“I can’t.  If it were for me, I’d tell you, Arthur, I would. But I have my father and mother to think of. I can’t risk it.”

“You don’t trust me?”

It’s all Merlin can do to keep from reaching out and throttling the man. “Of _course_ I trust you, Arthur.  And if you give your word, I know you’ll keep it.”

“Merlin, I can’t give you a promise when I don’t even know what you’re asking for.” For the first time since this started, he looks genuinely upset that he can’t do as Merlin asks.

“Alright,” Merlin gives in. He has to do something to set things right. “Alright, fine, I’ll tell you.”  If Arthur reacts badly – threatens to go to Uther –Merlin will just have to deal with the consequences.  Merlin swallows and looks down at his hands where they’re holding on to the log. “Do you know of the Dragonlords?” He peers up for Arthur’s reaction.

Arthur frowns. “I’ve heard of them from my father.  They were men who could control dragons, were they not? I believe my father said that the great dragon beneath Camelot was captured by such a man.” He eyes Merlin strangely. “Why do you ask?”

“Because my father…,” he takes a steeling breath. “My father is a Dragonlord. The last Dragonlord, actually.”

“ _Your_ father is the last Dragonlord?” Arthur’s brows look like they’re fighting to escape to his hairline. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, somewhat defensively. There’s no reason for Arthur to look so incredulous. “During the time of the great purge he was the one who brought the last dragon to Uther.  He did not know Uther intended to capture it, nor did he know that your father planned on killing him, as he killed all of my father’s brethren.”

“So how is it he still lives?”

“He was smuggled out of Camelot.  He came to Ealdor.” Merlin can’t help the smile that comes. “My mother sheltered him and they fell in love and built a life together.” He also has no control over the way his voice hardens as he goes on. “But your father found out that he still lived. He sent Knights to Ealdor and hunted my father down.”

He can’t look at Arthur. “So even before my father knew that my mother was with child he was forced to flee.  She never knew that he survived, and all this time he’s been in hiding to protect her.” Something wet splashes on his hands and Merlin realizes that they’re tears; his own, he’s crying.

“So, I couldn’t tell you that I was leaving Camelot to find my father because I couldn’t tell you the truth about him.  I wanted to, but the risk was too great.”

“So you _didn’t_ trust me?”

Merlin lifts his head to glare at Arthur. “Is that all you’re getting out of this?  I don’t know if this truth I’ve just revealed is going to get my father killed or my mother widowed or…  I don’t even know what other horrible thing could await.   How could I risk any word getting back to the King?”

“I am not my father, Merlin.” He sounds stung.

“I know that, Arthur.” Merlin tells him, imploring. “But you are loyal to him and I couldn’t ask you to lie to him.  I’d never put you in that position, Arthur. I’d never make you choose between your duty or your heart.”

Arthur frowns, but it’s a look of puzzlement rather than disappointment. “So you didn’t tell me because you didn’t want to put me in a position where my promise to keep your secret would go against my own oaths to my father?”

Huh, that’s pretty much it exactly. “Um, yes.   That’s it exactly.” He risks reaching out, touching Arthur’s sleeve just above the wrist. “I couldn’t do that do you.”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur looks down at him and shakes his head. But he’s smiling. Sort of. “You’re an idiot.”

“Uh, yes, Sire?”

Arthur pushes Merlin’s knee off the log so that he can sit down next to him. “I don’t want you to think I’ve forgiven you for lying to me,” he begins, an arm up and a finger raised for emphasis, “because I haven’t. Nor have I even begun to come up with a suitable enough punishment.” He lets the hand drop. “But now that you’ve trusted me with the truth, I would hope that you know that I wouldn’t betray that trust.”

“But, Arthur,” Merlin protests, “what about your father?” He doesn’t _want_ Arthur to turn Balinor over to Uther, but he’s having trouble believing that Arthur is just going to forget what he knows.

“I’ve defied my father before, Merlin.  I’ve done it for Morgana, and for Gwen and I even tried to do so for Lancelot.” His eyes narrow.  “Why do you think I would not do the same for you?”

The question makes Merlin duck his head in shame. He swipes at the fresh welling of tears, pressing his palms into his eyes and rubbing. “I don’t know,” he says.

Merlin feels a hand curve around the back of his neck. Unlike his mother’s gentle touch, this one grips tight. Arthur gives him a rough shake. “Well I will.  Of all people, Merlin, I think I can understand how important it is to have your father back safely.  I will keep his secret.  Besides,” he adds, almost off handed, “I think that if I did anything to spoil your mother’s happiness, she’d have my hide!”

Merlin laughs. “Yeah, she certainly would.”

Arthur gives him another of those shakes, rocking Merlin from side to side. “But don’t make a habit of this. Especially the lying. If I find out you’ve been lying to me about anything else, I’ll have no choice but to sack you.”

Because that is not something Merlin wants to think about (there are just so many lies) he tests the mood instead. “Does that mean you want me to tell you the truth about that green tunic Morgana picked out for you?”

“Of course.”  

“It’s dreadful, my Lord.”

Arthur chuckles and then he pushes Merlin off the log. “Shut up, Merlin.” He hops down gracefully and gives Merlin’s arm a tug. “C’mon. We’d better get back before they think I’ve strangled you.”

“Was that a possibility?” Merlin jokes.

“Yes, absolutely.” Arthur returns, deadpan.  

Crossing through the fields on the way back to the village proper, Merlin stops and makes Arthur pause as well.  “Arthur, there’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?” He looks wary.

“Not about me. It’s just that I didn’t know that you were here – you and Morgana and Gwen, I mean. I wouldn’t have brought Lancelot back with me.”

Arthur holds up a hand. “Whatever you’re going to say, Merlin, just stop.  I have no claim on Gwen. I care for her, I won’t deny that. But it’s selfish of me to ask her to wait for me. I have no idea if my father will ever change his stance on who I marry.” He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Hell, he’s probably already got plans to marry me off to one of his friends’ daughters.”

Merlin knows this is actually true, but he doesn’t say anything as Arthur goes on.   “Nor do I know how long it will be until I can make that decision for myself.  And since having that ability would mean that my father is dead, I’m rather hoping it’s not for a long while.” He gives a quick smile and then looks down to the neat rows of vegetables they’re walking through. “I cannot ask Guinevere to wait for something that… may never come to pass.  I want to see her happy, Merlin.  That’s what I care about most.”

“That’s a very noble thing to say, Arthur.  I don’t know what will happen with Lancelot though. He won’t come back to Camelot.” Merlin is sure of that. “Not until he’s proven himself. And I doubt Gwen would leave even if he asked her.”

Arthur looks thoughtful. “You know, I had an idea about that. Getting Lancelot back to Camelot, I mean.” 

“Does it involve deceiving your father?” Merlin asks with a grimace.

“Actually, not this time. He’s not going to be happy about it, but I think it’s a good compromise all around.” He lifts his chin, defiant and proud and aloof. “C’mon, let’s go talk to Lancelot and that big friend of his.  What was his name again?”

“Percival.”

“Yes,” Arthur nods. “Percival.” Almost under his breath he muses, “I wonder if he’s got any titled nobility in his family history?”

When they get back to Ealdor and to Merlin’s mother’s house Gwen and Morgana are just putting out supper for themselves and Lancelot and Percival.

“Enough for two more?” Arthur asks when he comes into the room and all eyes look up to him.

“Of course,” Gwen hurries to say.  She glances from him to Merlin and then to Lancelot. Merlin doesn’t recall ever seeing her so flustered (and considering her habit of putting her foot in her mouth, that’s saying something).

Merlin moves to help the women with the meal (he knows where the cutlery is, after all) while Arthur sits down. “Lancelot, I’d actually like to talk to you about something, if you don’t mind.”

Lancelot nods. “And I have something I wish to discuss with you.” His gaze slips to Gwen for a moment.

Arthur claps him on the shoulder. “I believe I already know, my friend. And you’ll get no grief from me over it.”

Lancelot frowns.  “But I thought…?”

Arthur’s smile is just a little brittle at the edges. “And you thought right. But it is not my place to dictate someone else’s life. Nor can I ask for someone to delay their chance at happiness on a possibility… a slim possibility,” he admits with a grimace.

Morgana is positively intrigued.  She nearly drops the cloth-wrapped loaf of bread on the table in her haste to take a seat. She shoots Merlin a look that he can easily read as meaning ‘We’ll talk about this later’.

“You know,” Gwen glowers at the both of them as she carries over the pot from the fireplace and sets it on the table on a trivet. “I’m right here. You needn’t talk about me like I’m not in the room.”

Percival leans over and catches Merlin’s arm, whispering, “Should we be here for this?”

Merlin shrugs. “We’d risk missing dinner.”

“I’ll stay then,” Percival says with a laugh that’s ignored by everyone around the table.

 “You’re right, Guinevere,” Arthur concedes. “And I’m sorry.” He nods to Lancelot. “Later then.”

Lancelot agrees with a curt nod of his own and an apology to Gwen.  “I am sorry as well, Gwen.  It’s not fair of us to put you on the spot like this. Come,” he slides down on the bench to make room for her between him and Arthur, “sit down and eat.”

Gwen blows a stray curl away from her forehead that just bounces back after she shakes her head at both men. She moves to Morgana’s side of the table. “My lady, do you mind?”

Morgana shifts over and pats the bench. “Not at all, Gwen.”

“I’ll just get this,” Merlin says, lifting the lid on the pot.  He recognizes his mother’s potato and leek soup and is suddenly famished.  He ladles portions into bowls and hands them out.  Looking well chastened, Arthur doesn’t even chide Merlin for not serving him first.

The meal that follows is relatively quiet and just a tad uncomfortable.  Afterward Merlin joins Gwen in cleaning up, waving away any of the offers he receives for help.

“What happened to your neck, Merlin?” Gwen asks as they’re stacking bowls (she’s been ignoring both Lancelot and Arthur’s attempts at small talk).

Merlin’s fingers find the rough line.  He’d washed up that morning in a stream and scrubbed off most of the dried blood but the mark is still angry red.  “Uh, one of the bandits we encountered,” he says, sharing a quick glance with Lancelot. “It’s nothing, really.”

“Let me see,” Arthur insists.  He walks over and takes Merlin by the chin and tilts his head to get a better look in the candle light.  Merlin can feel the warm puff of breath on his neck as Arthur leans in closer to look. “Doesn’t look like it was nothing.”

Merlin absolutely does not squirm when Arthur traces a finger along the mark.  

“A bit deeper, Merlin, and that would’ve killed you.” Arthur chastises.

He has to jerk away then, because Arthur’s fingers are too gentle (to say nothing of his soft voice).  “Sorry,” Merlin says, a flush warming his throat, “tickles.  My father took care of the bandit.” He tells Arthur, who is looking at his own upheld fingers strangely.

“Well I’m glad he was there for you.” He pulls his hand back and uses it to slap Merlin’s shoulder. “We should probably get some rest. It’s a long ride back to Camelot tomorrow.”

Watching Arthur dole out sleeping arrangements (which is rather amusing), Merlin lets his fingers stray back up to his jaw. And odd shivers runs down his spine as he recalls the feeling of Arthur’s touch.  Puzzled, and far too exhausted to try and figure it out, he heads to his designated spot on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning as the others get ready to depart, Merlin takes Arthur with him as he goes to say his farewells to his parents. His mother answers the neighbor’s door and Merlin bites his tongue on an exclamation.

Her hair is loose around her shoulders, free of its usual bonnet. and she looks absurdly young. His father comes to the door, standing behind her and he’s freshly shaven and cleaned up and looks almost unrecognizable to the hermit Merlin met in a cave. Best of all, they look absurdly happy.

“Mother, Father, we’re heading back to Camelot. I wanted to say goodbye.” Arthur clears his throat. “Oh, and also to introduce you to Arthur.” He steps back so Arthur and Balinor can shake hands. “Arthur, this is my father, Balinor. Father, this is Prince Arthur.”

“I know who he is boy,” his father chides gently and with a grin. “It’s good to meet you, Arthur.”

“You as well, Balinor.”

“Have a safe trip back to Camelot, Arthur.” Hunith leans out of the door to hug him. “It was lovely to see you again.”

Arthur accepts the hug graciously (if a trifle awkward). “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Hunith. Gwen and Morgana wish to add their thanks for your hospitality as well.”

“Of course, Arthur,” she says, still patting his back. “Please let them know they’re always welcome.” When she finally lets go, Arthur clears his throat and politely steps back to give Merlin a bit of privacy.

Merlin practically lurches forward and is caught up by both his parents, their arms going around him. It’s the moment he missed from yesterday, and it’s every bit as wonderful as he could have imagined. His father’s grip on him is strong and steady and his mother’s is no less fierce. “I knew you’d make up,” she whispers in his ear. “He is a good man.”

“I know, Mother.”

“Look after each other” she instructs.

“You and father as well,” Merlin answers.

His father ruffles Merlin’s hair. “Don’t you worry, Merlin, that will be no hardship.” Merlin clings to them for a few more moments and then finally, reluctantly, draws away.

“Take care of my boy, will you?” His father calls out. “Though I’ve only known him a few days, I can already tell he has a penchant for getting into trouble.”

Arthur laughs. “That he does, Sir.” He nods. “And I will.”

“Come back and visit soon.” Hunith adds.

“I will,” Merlin agrees, and means it, because he wants the chance to get to know his father as well. “Farewell.”

They rejoin the others, who are waiting with saddled horses.

The pace they set on the first leg of the journey is fast enough that it restricts the chance for too much chatter. Merlin is rather grateful for that as he doesn’t want to get in the middle of Arthur and Lancelot. Gwen is subdued, but she’s at least stopped ignoring both men entirely. When they do have to slow their mounts to get through trees, Morgana carries the conversation with Percival. The two are surprisingly chatty.

They reach the border of Essetir and Camelot at around noon and Lancelot calls them to a halt.

“This is where Percival and I will take our leave.” Lancelot explains, and avoids looking at Gwen. He starts to circle his horse towards Percival’s.

“Lancelot, wait.”

Merlin expected someone to stop him leaving, but he’d thought it would be Gwen, not Arthur.

Arthur takes something out of his saddlebag and then dismounts. He’s holding out a rolled up piece of parchment and he walks over to hand it to Lancelot. Merlin can see that it’s sealed with red wax stamped with the Pendragon crest. “Take this letter to the keep in Othanden, to the steward there.”

Lancelot accepts the missive. “What is it?”

“That’s a three day ride in the wrong direction.” Percival notes.

“A few years ago there was a small uprising in the Duchy of Othanden. My Knights and I took control of the keep. I still hold the deed to the lands and I’ve never named a successor.” He nods at the paper. “This is my official pronouncement naming you Lord of Othanden, and Percival your Baron.”

Lancelot’s mouth drops open but no sound comes forth.

Percival looks between Lancelot and Arthur. “Are you joking?”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “I’m completely serious about this.”

Lancelot finds his voice, and uses it to sputter a protest. “Arthur you can’t do –“

“I can,” Arthur cuts him off. “And I did. I’ve made a copy of that as well, and I’ll hand it over to Geoffrey of Monmouth for official recording in the courts records.”

“I don’t understand, Arthur. Why would you do this?”

Arthur looks over at Gwen briefly. “Only those from noble families can be welcomed into the rank of Knights. I cannot change that law. But I can confer nobility upon you.” He scrubs at his hair. “To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed I didn’t think of this sooner.”

“But I do not deserve this, Arthur.”

Percival just shrugs. “I’ll take it.”

Lancelot ignores him. “I cannot accept.” He tries to hand the parchment back but Arthur refuses to take it.

“Lancelot, you are honorable, brave and true. If it weren’t for the damn laws you’d be my best Knight already. I know you feel you have something to make up for, but I don’t. Let me do this for you.”

Lancelot’s mouth opens and then closes and then opens again. He turns in his saddle. “Percival, you’re alright with this?”

Percival just shrugs. “If the Prince of Camelot wants to give me land and a title and then make me a Knight, who’m I to argue? You know me, my friend. I can kill Cenred’s men just as easily wearing a red cloak as I can without it. Might be more fun if it’s on official business of the crown.”

“The treaty we have with Cenred is almost expired,” Arthur tells Percival with a grin. “It’s unlikely that he’ll agree to a further one. You’ll probably get plenty of chances to be a thorn in Cenred’s side.”

Percival points a hand in Arthur’s direction. “There, you see? How do I say no to that, Lancelot?”

“You deserve this,” Merlin adds. “Remember that talk we had about people who refuse to accept happiness?”

Lancelot rolls his eyes but he does nod.

Gwen, who has been watching this transpire in silence, finally reacts. She urges her mount forward, guiding it to stand only a pace away from Lancelot’s and pointedly blocking his way. “Arthur and Merlin are right,” Gwen states. “This is the right thing to do. Lancelot, this means you can come back to Camelot.” She doesn’t add ‘come back to me’, but it’s there to be heard.

Merlin looks at Arthur then, but he’s stone-faced and still looking up at Lancelot, waiting for his answer.

Lancelot bows his head. “Very well. Prince Arthur, I accept.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear that. Now,” Arthur instructs, “go to Othanden, get that business sorted with the steward and then come back to Camelot so I can make your Knighthood official.”

“But you’re giving me lands and a keep to run. I cannot just accept such a thing and abandon it immediately.”

Arthur waves this away. “The steward there has been managing things in my absence. He’s a skillful fellow and I have no doubt he can continue on in that role on your behalf. Lancelot, look, I have other estates and lands all across Camelot and the Five Kingdoms, and they’re all managed for me. Hell, half of the Knights are the sons of Nobles who’ve never set foot in the lands they own.”

When Lancelot continues to frown, Arthur concedes slightly. “Fine, I won’t expect you back to Camelot for at least a month. That will give you ample time to get settled.” He raises an arm and wags a warning finger at both men. “But if you’ve not reported for duty in Camelot by the end of that time, don’t think I won’t ride to Othanden to drag you back. Too much time behind a desk running things and you’ll go soft.”

“Understood, my Lord.” Lancelot nods.

“Of course, Sire.” Percival agrees.

Merlin can already tell they’ll be back before the month is up.

“Arthur,” Gwen says softly. “Could Lancelot and I have a minute?”

Arthur frowns but he steps back and nods. “Of course, Guinevere. We’ll just wait down the road.” He returns to his horse and mounts up. “Lancelot, Percival, I’ll see you both soon. Farewell.” He gathers up his reins and taps his heels to his mounts’ sides.

Morgana follows him.

“Um, Gwen?” Merlin asks. “Do you mind if I take a moment first?”

“Oh, Merlin. Of course.”

Merlin dismounts, takes something out of his own pack and walks a short distance back the way they’d come. Lancelot joins him and puts a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

“Did you have any idea Arthur was going to do that?”

“No,” Merlin’s head shake is vehement. “I was as surprised as you were. I mean, last night when he and I were talking he mentioned having some idea, but he didn’t tell me what it was. I wasn’t expecting all of this.”

“I cannot believe he’d do this for me. Especially knowing how he feels about Gwen.”

“Arthur cares for Gwen,” Merlin agrees. “But he just wants to see her happy.” He smiles and it’s a bit of a mocking sort of expression. “Funny that. Friends wanting to see their friends happy.”

“You know you’ve won that argument many times over, my friend.” Lancelot tells him with a mock-exasperated sigh. “I concede, Merlin. I will no longer avoid happiness at all costs.” He leans in a little closer. “Can you tell me this one thing, Merlin. In the future you came from, the one where I died, what happened between them? Were they together?”

Merlin has vowed to tell Lancelot the truth; still he hesitates before he nods.

“Were they happy?”

“They were, Lancelot. But it didn’t last long. Not as long as it should have. And Gwen was left alone to rule Camelot.”

That makes Lancelot blink in surprise.

“Didn’t I mention that?” Merlin cringes. “Sorry. Well, obviously Arthur couldn’t marry her until he was King. Which made her Queen.”

Lancelot’s smile is a bit moony. “I’ll bet she was much beloved by her subjects.”

“Oh, there’s no doubt. She was a brilliant Queen, Lancelot. But she’d lost you, and in the end she lost Arthur. As much as I don’t want to take that future away from Arthur, I will do whatever it takes to keep him safe. And if that changes his future with Gwen, then that is knowledge that I will live with.” He shrugs, as if carrying that weight is an easy thing. “No one beside you need ever know. And this way Gwen won’t have to mourn two men that she loves. It’s for the best, Lancelot, it really is. And if you think about it, Arthur’s had his chance. Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m not sure I’d think of it that way, Merlin, but thank you.” He sighs, but it’s a happy, accepting sort of sigh.

“Here.” Merlin holds out the small wooden box that he pulled from his pack.

“What’s this?” Lancelot asks as he accepts it.

Merlin rolls a finger, indicating he should open it. “Remember I had to buy information from the Silversmith?” He nods down at the four-petaled flow pendant that is revealed when Lancelot lifts the lid. “I got that for Gwen. I mean, I got something for Morgana and so I had to get something for Gwen too, so Arthur wouldn’t think it looked odd. I thought maybe you’d like to give it to her?”

He sees immediately that Lancelot is going to refuse. “Please, Lancelot. Just take it. I’m sure she’d appreciate it much more from you than me.”

“Alright, my friend.” He closed the lid and nods. “But only to save you the embarrassment of trying to explain why you got it.”

“I should’ve just given both the pendants to my mother.” Merlin grumbles. “Would’ve been easier still.”

Lancelot grins widely. “You brought her a husband; I think that’s a better gift than any silver.”

Merlin laughs, because that’s a very good point.

“Well I suppose I’ll see you in Camelot soon, Merlin.”

“I look forward to your official Knighting, Sir Lancelot.”

The share a quick, back-thumping hug and then Merlin moves away to say his goodbye to Percival, leaving Lancelot and Gwen alone together.

“I don’t think I’ve gotten the chance to thank you, Merlin.” Percival says.

“Thank me?” Merlin laughs. “For what?”

“Merlin, in the past few days I’ve seen magic and a dragon hatched and been given land and a title, not to mention the skirmishes we either fought our way through or managed to avoid. It’s been an eventful time for me and it’s all thanks to having met you.”

Merlin doesn’t quite know what to say to that. “Uh, you’re welcome. And thank you for everything, as well.”

Percival holds out an arm. “Good luck, Merlin. I have a feeling you may need it.” He nods toward the road where Arthur waits.

Clasping Percival’s arm and giving a rough shake, Merlin can’t help but laugh. “Story of my life, Percival. I’ll see you soon.”

When Gwen rejoins him her eyes are red but her cheeks are dry and there’s a softness in her expression that Merlin hasn’t seen in a very long time. They wave as Percival and Lancelot peel away down a branching path in the road and then catch up Arthur and Morgana.

Merlin trots past Morgana (who is hanging back, waiting on Gwen) and throws her a quick nod that Morgana acknowledges with one of her own. They’ve both got people to comfort in very different ways.

“When did you even get a chance to write all that up?” He asks Arthur once their horses are abreast.

“Last night, after you were all asleep. I found some of your mother’s parchment. I hope she won’t mind I used it.”

Merlin shakes his head. “No. She mostly uses that to send me letters anyway. I suspect she’ll be a little too busy for letter writing for a while.”

That earns him a smile.

“It’s a noble thing you’re doing, Arthur. A bit self-sacrificing, but that’s no less than I’ve come to expect from you. For a prat, you can be quite decent sometimes.”

Arthur rolls his eyes so hard his whole head moves with it. “Merlin, I’ll have you know that I’m decent all the time.”

They bicker back and forth for nearly the next hour, until Morgana tires of it and throws a boot at Arthur’s head. They camp at dusk and continue on early the next morning, putting their arrival into Camelot at early afternoon.

Merlin heads straight to Gaius, although he’d like to follow after Arthur and see how Uther reacts to his announcement of having given away land and titles to two lowborn men.

“Gauis?” Merlin calls out as he pushes open the door.

“Merlin?” Gaius lifts his head from a steaming concoction that he’s hunched over. “Where have you been?”

Before Merlin can start to explain, Gaius launches into a diatribe. “Do you have any idea of the position you put me in? I had no idea that you told Arthur your Mother was ill. Do you know that Arthur went to Ealdor to find you? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? Where did you actually go? Don’t try and tell me you actually went to visit your Mother. I can’t believe you! Leaving me to cover for you with Arthur...”

“Gaius,” Merlin holds up his hands, trying to calm him. “Gaius, please. I can explain.”

“Oh, you’d better have an explanation, Merlin.” Gaius throws down the vial that’s in hand and it crashes on the table. He looks down at it, shakes his head sadly and then his whole body slumps.

He looks old and exhausted and Merlin feels terrible for putting him through so much. “I’m sorry, Gaius. You’re right. C’mon, let’s sit down.” He takes Gaius by the elbow and leads him to the table.

“Alright, I’m sitting. Out with it, Merlin. Where have you been?”

“Is it of any comfort to you to know that I actually _did_ just come back from Ealdor?” Merlin asks hopefully.

“Some, I suppose.” Gaius admits, grudgingly. “Did Arthur find you there?”

“It’s more like I found him there. You’re right that I didn’t leave to go to Ealdor. Not at first.” He takes a deep breath, and prepares himself for more yelling. “I first went to Cenred’s kingdom, to the Feore Mountains.”

Gaius frowns. “What on earth were you doing there?”

“I went to find Balinor. I went to find my father.”

As Merlin watches Gaius’ whole face seems to drain of color. “How do you know of Balinor?”

Merlin has struggled to find a plausible explanation for this, but come up empty handed (Gaius would likely never believe that his mother told him, which is the only other excuse he could think of). All that he has to fall back on is, “It was a dream. Well, it started as a dream. I saw a man, alone in the woods. I knew he must be important, so I went to the Druids for help. They’ve spoken to me before, about the future and my destiny.”

Aside from being rather weak as an explanation, it also compounds the lies he’s already told Gaius. In his old life he could tell Gaius almost anything (or Gaius would get the truth out of him eventually). He hates that he must stoop to such falsehoods, but he absolutely cannot tell Gaius the truth about where his foreknowledge comes from.

“And the Druids told you who this man was?”

“Yes,” Merlin nods. “Balinor is the last Dragonlord. And he is my father.”

Gaius tuts and shakes his head. “Merlin, you should’ve talked to me about this first.”

“Well, I wanted to. I really did, Gaius. But I just had this feeling that I needed to find him.” He looks away, ashamed. “I didn’t know if you’d tell me about him, or even believe me about these dreams.” When he looks back, Gaius is frowning again. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I think that you don’t believe me. It’s just that sometimes I can tell that you don’t trust them as true visions.”

“I’m sorry to have doubted you, Merlin. Or to have made you think you couldn’t come to me with these dreams of yours.” Gaius sounds sad and weary and Merlin feels like absolute rubbish.

“No, Gaius. This isn’t your fault. I should’ve come to you about this. It’s just… there’s something else I haven’t told you.” He ducks his head again. “Well, several things. And I know you’re going to be quite angry with me about them.”

Gaius’ brows dip inward. “What other things, Merlin?”

“Uh, well first of all, I may have freed the Great Dragon.”

“What!?” Gaius exclaims and starts to sputter out words that might either be a question or an admonishment.

Before he can make sense of them, Merlin pushes on. “Uh, I may have also tracked down the last Dragon’s egg in the Tower of Ashkanar.”

Gaius ceases making noise and just gapes, his eyes comically wide.

“Oh, and I brought the egg to my father and he hatched it.”

Gaius closes his mouth with a loud pop. He swallows and in an oddly calm voice asks, “Is that all?”

“Uh,” Merlin rubs at the back of his neck. “I also brought Balinor back to Ealdor with me and reunited him with my mother.”

Gaius starts to sputter again. It takes him a few moments to get a clear word out, and when he does it’s a very loud and very accusatory, “Merlin!”

Merlin flinches at the volume. He waits to see which of the many confessions are going to be brought up first.

“You said that Arthur was waiting for you in Ealdor. Do you know what he would do if he found out that your father is a Dragonlord? You’ve put not only your father and mother, but yourself at risk as well.”

“No, don’t worry, Gaius. Arthur won’t say anything to Uther. He’s given me his word.”

That doesn’t have the desired calming effect that Merlin hoped for. “You mean he knows?!” Gaius stands up and starts to pace the room. “Of all the irresponsible, idiotic… Merlin, I don’t even know what to say to you.”

Merlin stands as well and catches Gaius up mid-pace. He takes him by the shoulders and looks in his eye. “Gaius. It will be all right. I know it will. I trust Arthur. He knows what it means for me to have found my father. He saw them together, Gaius. He saw how happy they were. He would never betray that.”

For a minute Merlin thinks Gaius is going to argue, but then his shoulders slump in defeat. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Merlin.”

“I do, Gaius. I know it may not seem like it all the time, but I really do.”

Gaius nods – though it still seems a bit reluctant – and returns to the table. He points at the opposite side. “Well sit down then, you’d better tell me about the rest. How did you even know about the Tower of Ashkanar? And what about the key?”

Merlin spends the next little while carefully filling Gaius in on as much as he can without letting too much slip. It’s a delicate balance and he has to rely far too much on both the Druids and the very vague ‘dreams’ as excuses for knowledge he just shouldn’t have. Gaius huffs and sighs and occasionally yells (especially when Merlin tells him about Borden, and he has to stop Merlin talking entirely for a quarter of an hour to fuss over the wound on Merlin’s neck), but eventually the whole story is told.

“And that’s it?” Gaius asks, head held up on one hand that’s propped on the tabletop. He looks more worn out than if he’d spent the day doing his rounds through the lower city.

“Well, there is the matter of the Druid girl.”

“How did you learn about her?”

“Morgana,” Merlin explains. “She mentioned it in Ealdor. She said you were trying to see if you could find some way to remove the curse. Any luck?” He knows it’s highly unlikely Gaius has had any success.

“No,” Gaius shakes his head sadly. “I’m afraid I’ve found nothing that suggests a curse like this can even be broken. I fear that Uther will have no choice.”

“Gaius, there has to be a way.”

“Don’t you think the Druids would have found it, Merlin? This curse is ancient and powerful.”

Merlin knows he has to tread carefully. Guide Gaius there rather than bludgeon him with insistence. “If we can find a way, though? Perhaps something in one of your books. Would you let me try it?”

“How would we explain it to Uther? If anything could remove this curse, which I’m not saying is even possible, it would be magic not potions. Uther thinks that perhaps there’s some tonic I can mix up that will fix her, and he’s hardly tolerant of that idea. Frankly I’m shocked he’s not had her put to death already.” Gaius sits up a little straighter, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Merlin?”

Holding his hands up, Merlin says, “No, Gaius. I have no idea what’s going on with Uther. But if he’s being even remotely tolerant, then I think we need to take advantage of that. If we can cure Freya, then maybe it will help Uther see that not all those who have magic are evil.”

Gaius still looks wary, but he nods. “It’s possible. But that still doesn’t get us around the fact that you’d need to use magic – likely very powerful magic - if there’s any way at all to remove the curse. I don’t know if Uther will even allow me to be alone with the girl, to say nothing of you.”

Merlin scratches thoughtfully his neck. “Getting into the dungeons isn’t really that difficult for me, Gaius. If I can get to Freya and use my magic to cure her, then you could always arrive afterward with some kind of harmless potion for her to drink.”

“That sounds dangerous, Merlin.” Gaius cautions, but Merlin can already see that he’s thinking about it and planning ahead. “And we still don’t even know if a cure is possible.” He considers a moment more and then nods. “We’ll need to research. Come on, let’s get the books.”

Fighting a groan, Merlin fetches several stacks of heavy, dusty tomes, piles them next to the table and flips one open at random. He pretends to pour over the old texts, occasionally muttering about perhaps having found something (only to have it dismissed by Gaius) and then on the pretext of getting yet _more_ books to peruse, he climbs to the small balcony. Up there he grabs the oldest looking text he can find that makes any reference to curses whatsoever, finds an empty page in the back and mutters a spell under his breath, “Ic us bisen hræd tán hwanon.”

He’d once used it to copy a seal of nobility out of an old genealogy text for Lancelot onto a blank sheet of parchment. He doesn’t have a source here other than what’s in his head, but it works well enough and the page slowly fills with words. Once it’s done he closes the book and stacks it with several others and carries them back down to the table.

For the sake of authenticity, he pages through two more books before grabbing that one up. He flips through the book slowly, stopping once to point out an entirely different passage to Gaius (which earns him a headshake and a frown), before finally coming to that one at the end. “Oh, Gaius, what about this.” He turns the book and slides it over for Gauis to read. “For all matter of curses and enchantments, it says.”

Gaius reads it over quietly. Merlin hopes he doesn’t pay too much attention to the fact that the language may not match the rest of the text in the book exactly (he tried to come up with something close, but some of these languages are quite archaic).

When Gaius makes a humming noise that sounds interested rather than dismissive, Merlin champs down on his urge to celebrate, or even just smile too eagerly. “It’s not too vague is it? I mean, seems rather useful, but then again, I’m not the expert here.” It’s possibly he’s laying it on too thick. Fortunately, Gaius seems too absorbed in rereading the page to notice.

“You know, Merlin. You just might have something here.”

Merlin keeps his expression as neutral as possible. “Yeah, you think so?”

Gaius nods. “Yes, I think it’s possible this could work.” He drags a finger over some lines (and Merlin hopes that the ink doesn’t smear). “I think you may need to cast it on the girl when she’s in her beast form though.”

Frowning, Merlin doesn’t pull the book away from Gaius, but he wants to. He doesn’t recall putting that instruction in there. Perhaps Gaius is interpreting it a bit differently that he’d intended. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Here,” he slides the book back over, “read this through very carefully. I’m going to get to work on a potion that we can give the girl that will convince Uther it’s doing something of any use.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, well I can’t just give her a plain tonic now can I? Uther needs to feel confident that whatever I give her works. Trust me, my boy, he’ll be much easier to convince if there’s some visible effect. Something that makes it look like the potion is working on her.” He looks over at Merlin, frowning. “Don’t worry, Merlin. I’m not going to harm the girl.” Gaius points at the book, “Now get reading.”

Dutifully, Merlin drops his gaze to the book.

After they have their dinner, Gaius goes back to working on a potion he’s sure will provide the right amount of ‘show’ for Uther.

“I’ll sneak down to the dungeons, then.” Merlin suggests.

“Merlin, she doesn’t change form until midnight.”

“Gaius,” he protests. “I can’t just show up and cast this spell on a mindless beast. I need to talk to the girl first.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, Merlin?”

Merlin stands and nods. “Yes, I’m sure.” He takes his satchel and puts the book and some fruit and cheese and bread inside (she’s in the dungeons which means Freya’s getting regular meals, but Merlin’s familiar with how meager they can be). “I should be back after midnight.” He tells Gaius just before leaving. “But don’t wait up for me.”

As usual, getting into the dungeons is no difficult task. He puts the guards to sleep with a spell and, just to be on the safe side, casts the concealment spell on himself. If someone overhears his conversation with Freya it will sound rather one sided.

He approaches the cell slowly, an apple in his outstretched hand. “Uh, hello.”

Freya, who is hunched in a corner, her knees tucked to her chest and arms wrapped around them, looks up at him blankly. Someone’s given her a peasant’s dress at least. It’s old, and a bit ratty, but far nicer than what Merlin remembers her wearing in the cage. “Hi,” Merlin tries again. “Uh, I’m Merlin. You’re Freya, right?” Which is a stupid question, because who else would she be.

It’s startling to see her again. There’s a familiar pang in his chest, although it’s considerably dulled since the last time he felt it.

Freya doesn’t respond.

“I brought you this.” He kneels down and reaches an arm through the bars, the apple balanced on his flat palm. “It’s okay, you can take it. I’ve been locked in here a time or two. I know how terrible the food is.” He smiles and is pleased when he gets a slight grin in return.

Slowly she reaches out for the fruit. She snatches it back as soon as it’s in her hand. “Why are you here, Merlin?” She asks quietly before taking a small bite.

Merlin sits down cross-legged on the floor. “I’m a friend of Gaius. He tells me that he’s been looking into ways to help you.”

Freya takes another bite, chews and swallows before shaking her head. “There’s no helping me.”

“Why do you say that?” Merlin asks. He could just spring the news on her, that he can remove the curse, but this will be all the time he’ll probably get to spend with her. Even if she’s ‘cured’ and Uther determines her innocence in a fair trial, she won’t be allowed to stay in Camelot. And Merlin has long outgrown any urges to run away. His loyalty is to Arthur now, no matter who or what might try to tempt him otherwise.

“Even my own people will have nothing to do with me. Not that I blame them. It’s for the best that I’m here, where I can’t hurt anyone else.” She looks at the apple in her hand, rolling it between her fingers before setting it on the wooden plate that must be a remnant from her dinner.

“Do you want something else?” Merlin opens his satchel. “I’ve got some bread and a bit of cheese in here. Oh, and more fruit.” He takes out a plum.

Freya shakes her head. “Thank you, Merlin, but I’m fine. As you said, the food isn’t the finest fare, but it’s plentiful enough. There was even a stew tonight.”

Merlin grins. “Better than I’ve ever gotten when I’ve been in here.”

“What could you have done to end up in the dungeons?”

“Well, you see I work for Gaius, but I’m also the personal servant of Prince Arthur.”

“Really?” Freya blinks, startled.

“Yeah,” Merlin nods. “And things are good now, but in the beginning he and I didn’t get on too well. The first day I met him I called him an ass and tried to punch him.”

Freya’s hand darts out to cover her mouth, but Merlin catches the high, sweet sound of her giggle before it’s stopped by her fingers.

“Yeah, he wasn’t too happy about that. ‘Course, I didn’t know he was the King’s son when I did that. Although I did know who he was the _second_ time I met him and called him a prat.” He smirks. “And not that it’s stopped me calling him a prat as often as I can since. Sometimes that gets me thrown in the stocks, but when he’s really feeling prattish, I can spend a night down here.”

This time Freya can’t stop the noise of her laughter. It’s light and quiet but it makes Merlin’s eyes water. “He doesn’t do that to you, does he?”

“Nah,” Merlin shakes his head. “Not anymore at least. He’s actually a good man. Kind and fair.” Leaning a little bit closer, Merlin drops his voice to a whisper. “There’s one other thing that’s almost gotten me in trouble.”

Intrigued, Freya leans closer as well. “What’s that?” She’s smiling and Merlin knows she’s expecting another joke.

“I have magic,” he admits.

Freya jerks back. “What?”

“I’m a sorcerer. I have magic. But it’s a secret that I must keep from everyone, even Prince Arthur.”

“I don’t understand,” Freya says nervously. “Why are you telling me this?”

Merlin smiles as gently and reassuring as he can. “Because I just want you to know that I understand what it’s like, to be different and alone in the world even when you’re surrounded by people.” When she starts to speak, and Merlin recognizes the start of a protest, he hurries on. “I know that we’re different. I was born with magic. What happens to you is something horrible that was forced upon you as a punishment for something you didn’t do. But being different isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

A calculating expression appears on Freya’s face. “What can you do with your magic? Could you get me out of here?”

Merlin could, but he shakes his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.” He frowns. “Do you want to escape? I mean, I thought you didn’t want to hurt anyone else?”

“I don’t.” Freya turns her head away then, the fall of dark hair hiding her face when she says, “I just don’t want to die in here either. I’m scared, Merlin.” There’s a catch in her voice and her words are followed by a soft hiccup of breath.

“Shhh,” Merlin tries to hush her, to calm her down. “Please don’t cry Freya. You’re not going to die here. I promise. I won’t let that happen.”

“How can you promise me that?”

“Because I can cure you, Freya. I can remove your curse.”

Her head jerks back around, hair whipping across her face. A few tendrils stick to her damp cheeks. “That’s impossible.” She shakes her head in denial. “The druids didn’t have magic strong enough to remove the curse. They sent me away to live on my own, where I could hurt no one when they couldn’t fix me. How can you do what a whole people could not?”

Merlin shrugs. “I am a powerful sorcerer. Gaius and I, we found a spell.” He pulls the heavy old tome from his satchel. “It’s an old spell, but I’ve read it and I know I can do it.” It takes him a moment to flip to the page (not that he needs it, but it’s better if Freya believes –just as Gaius does –that this spell is from an old book, rather than just from Merlin’s own magic). When he looks back up at Freya she’s still shifting her head in minute little side to side jerks.

“I know it must seem impossible to trust something like this, Freya. How crazy it must all seem. I mean, you don’t know me, you don’t have reason to trust me, and I’m offering you something that sounds impossible. I don’t blame you for doubting.” He reaches through the bars again. “Take my hand.” He suggests.

Freya just blinks at him.

“Please, take my hand. I won’t hurt you, I promise you that.”

Tentatively she reaches out. Her fingers hover above his hand, but he waits for her to make the connection. When she finally does let her hand rest in his, he gives hers a gentle squeeze. And then he sends a sense of warmth and well-being to her through their joined hands.

“That, that feels so wonderful, Merlin.” She says, awe in her voice. “How are you doing that?”

Merlin ducks his head, blushing slightly. “It’s nothing, really.” It’s nothing much, magic-wise, just a little shared feeling, but it is a little bit intimate. It’s a bit presumptuous as well, coming from long buried feelings (though never forgotten) of a past that no longer exists, but he hopes it will provide the reassurance where his words will not. He lets the flow of energy stop after a moment and pulls his hand away slowly.

“I just wanted you to see that I’m not going to hurt you. That I’m here because I know I can help. But I don’t want to do this unless you agree.” He tilts his head, looking at her once again and smiling. “Will you let me try?”

Freya nods. It’s just a quick little dip of her head at first and then she does it again, vigorously. “Yes, yes, please, Merlin. If you can fix me… Please.” She clasps her hands together in front of her and bows her head, resting her mouth over the ball of her hands. Merlin can hear that she’s still speaking softly but can’t make out any words.

“Alright,” Merlin tells her. “I’m going to give this a try.” He glances down at the book, and then closes his eyes. He extends his hand again and speaks words that come naturally to him. “Ich bebod amansumung béo abregdan irrees. Béo déorcynn naht maes!”

When he opens his eyes Freya is still sitting exactly as he left her. Nothing looks any different. Although, Merlin didn’t really expect there to be anything different about this version of her.

“Freya?”

She lifts her head up from her hands and blinks. “Was that it?”

“Um, yeah?” Merlin tries very hard not to feel offended. “I mean, I think so. It should have worked. Do you feel any different?”

Freya takes his question at least somewhat literally. She presses her fingertips to her checks and her neck and touches her arms and legs. “Uh, no.” She sags in disappointment.

“Oh, but that’s not to say it didn’t work!” Merlin hurries to say. “I mean, we won’t know until the change actually comes upon you. Or, when it’s supposed to.”

“So we have to wait?”

Merlin nods. “Yes. But don’t worry, I’ll wait with you.” He grabs for the satchel. “Do you want anything else to eat?”

Freya settles back against the wall close to the bars and stretches her legs in front of her. “I suppose,” she answers though there’s a sigh in her voice.

“Um, is there anything else you’d like? I mean, something other than cheese or bread?” He remembers one of the moments they shared in the tunnels beneath Camelot. “If you could have any one food right now, what would it be?”

She actually smiles at that. “I’ve played this game before.”

“Yeah, but what would it be?”

Freya closes her eyes and tilts her head back against the wall. She hums softly as she thinks. “Strawberries.”

That pang jabs at his chest again. Dull, almost like an ache. He ignores it. “I can help there,” he says and whispers, “Blóstma eorðberge,” into his cupped palms. When he holds them out to Freya they’re heaped with fresh, ripe berries.

“Oh, Merlin!” She takes one and bites into it. “They’re perfect.”

For the next hour they sit there, eating strawberries and talking. Freya opens up a little bit more about her life, about being a Druid and about how she’s spent the last few years. It’s been a lonely existence for her. Merlin shares more stories of Camelot and of Arthur that keep her laughing (even though he can hear the desperation in it that grows and grows as the night wears on).

Merlin is in the middle of one of his tales (he’s telling it out of time as well, as Arthur with donkey ears won’t happen for some years to come) when a distant sound catches his ear. “The bells!” He jumps to his feet. “They’ve rung, Freya. It’s midnight and you’re still you.”

Freya stands slowly and walks to the far end of the cell where there’s a small window high in the wall. “That cannot be,” she says, and Merlin can’t tell what he hears in her voice. Then she turns to face him and she looks wondrous. “This cannot be, Merlin. I… I’m not changed. I’m still me.” She rushes to the bars then, and takes hold of Merlin’s hands.

“You did it, Merlin. You saved me.”

The bars are between them, so he cannot take her up in an embrace as he’d like to, but he holds tight to her hand and leans his forehead against hers in the space between the iron posts. “I’m so glad, Freya. You deserve to be happy and free.”

“I will never be able to thank you enough for this, Merlin.”

He feels fingertips on his chin and they turn his face to the side. She places a kiss there, high on his cheekbone. He could, he knows, turn enough to receive that same kiss on his lips, but he doesn’t. He just smiles and then pulls away. “I’m so happy for you, Freya.”

“Merlin?”

“I have to go, Freya. I’d like to stay.” Which isn’t necessarily a lie, but there’s an odd, unsettled feeling in his stomach that’s telling him it’s safer if he leaves. “But I cannot get caught here.” He smiles again, to reassure her. “Don’t worry. It’s just that I need to get back to Gaius.” He spreads his hands. “We can’t exactly say that your curse was removed with magic, you see. So, tomorrow, Gaius is going to come to you with a potion. That way Uther can witness your cure for himself.” He rolls his eyes. “Sorry to put you through such pageantry, but it’s for the best.”

“Oh,” Freya nods, but sadly. “I understand.” It doesn’t sound like she does at all, though.

“I am sorry, Freya. I hate to leave you like this. Will you be alright?”

Her mouth curves up, though it’s nothing like her smiles of a few moments ago. “Merlin, you’ve saved my life. You’ve made me whole again. I can… I can go home. I can find my people again. I will be more than alright.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking up at him through thick lashes. “I just hoped we could talk more. You’re sweet, Merlin. Even before you fixed me, even knowing what I was, you were kind and so sweet to me. It’s been so very long since anyone showed me such kindness.”

Merlin knows there’s more being said. And he knows very well that the Merlin of this time would be sorely tempted by it. But he isn’t that Merlin, and though he feels fondness and affection for Freya, he’s content with having saved her life. The same pull that drew him to her the first time and incited him to try to run away just isn’t there. She could be a very good friend, but that’s as far as it could go, and he knows it will be easier to leave now.

“Freya, I wish you nothing but happiness. And I’m truly grateful to have met you.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Freya asks, and there’s a knowing tone to her voice.

“Perhaps. I may be able to accompany Gaius tomorrow when he comes to see you. I can make no promises though, Freya. I am Arthur’s servant after all, and my time is his.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Well, tomorrow night I suspect you’ll be watched over quite carefully. They’re going to want to see for themselves, Freya.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” She tilts her head to the side and eyes him strangely. “If Uther should pardon me, he won’t let me stay in Camelot will he?”

Merlin shakes his head sadly. “No, I don’t think so.”

Freya takes a deep breath. “This is goodbye then, isn’t it, Merlin?”

He swallows hard, but nods. “Yeah.”

“Farewell, then, Merlin. Know that you will always have my gratitude. I will find some way to repay your kindness.”

“You don’t… that’s not necessary, Freya. Just be happy, yeah?” He takes her hand and bows over it, then places a chaste kiss on the back. “Goodbye, Freya.”

She gives his fingers a tight squeeze before letting go. “Goodbye, Merlin.”

He retreats from the dungeons hastily.

When he returns to their rooms, Gaius is asleep but Merlin wakes him by gently shaking his shoulder. When Gaius opens his eyes to blink blearily up at him, Merlin grins. “It worked, Gaius. Freya. The curse is gone.”

“That’s good, m’boy.” Gaius pats at his arm somewhat clumsily. Merlin lets him get back to sleep and heads up to his room. His own rest is a long time coming.

Thankfully, Gaius wakes him plenty early and he gets an early start on his duties. He’s anxious to wake Arthur and find out how things went yesterday after they got back.

Arthur is still sleeping when Merlin enters his room, judging by the rumbling sound issuing from the direction of the bed. He sets the breakfast tray on the table and goes to the window, ready to draw the curtains. Something makes him pause and turn around though.

A thin beam of sunlight slices through the gap in the curtains and is angled just perfectly to brighten a sliver of Arthur’s skin along his shoulder. Half his torso is covered by the thick blanket, the other half is sprawled – arm thrown completely off the bed – and bare. Arthur’s head is pressed into the pillow, mouth open slightly and the soft snoring is making his lower lip quiver with every noisy exhale.

Some odd sort of pang hits Merlin in the gut as he looks at Arthur, and it takes him a long moment to recognize that it’s the same sort of tight, stomach-clenching feeling he’d experienced the night before when he was with Freya. But that was a dull ache compared to this sharp and jabbing sort of twinge. Merlin frowns.

This isn’t good. He’s never, never let himself get caught up in this feeling before.

It’s not new…

It’s something he’s been very careful about controlling for a very long time. But he can’t seem to quash it right now. The twinge is like the feeling that lingers after he’s been knocked in the stomach by Arthur on the practice field. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it’s an odd twisting sensation that makes him slightly nauseous.

Before, in his old life, the first time he got caught up in realizing how desirable Arthur was it happened not long after they’d met. And Arthur’s attitude went a long way towards convincing Merlin that any sort of attraction he felt was wasted on such an ass. After that, when he got closer to Arthur and learned the true nature of the kind of man he was, his desires sometimes got tangled with affection and admiration. Whenever this feeling, the insatiable wanting, came upon him there was always Gwen, and the way he felt so pleased for Arthur at finding her. It was easy to put it all aside with thoughts of Gwen. That leads him to wonder: is it because Arthur seems to have given Gwen up to Lancelot that he’s feeling this way so strongly?

He’s taken a full step towards the bed before he realizes that he’s even moved and that’s it! He can’t deal with this. Not now.

Spinning abruptly back around, Merlin yanks the curtains aside. “Rise and shine!” He practically shouts with as much forced cheer as he can manage. There is – as usual – a semi-responsive grumbling from the bed.

“Shut up, Merlin. Let me sleep.”

“Sorry, sire.” He quickly paces back to the bed and –keeping his eyes carefully averted – yanks the bedcovers down. “You’ve got a busy day. No lazing about.” He hustles over to the table while behind him he hears Arthur slowly moving around on the bed.

“You’re far too cheery this morning, Merlin.” Arthur complains as Merlin turns, holding out a tray and a goblet. Arthur, who is shuffling slowly across the floor on bare feet, looks quite a mess. His hair is a rucked-up haystack and there are pillow creases all along his face. It should not be endearing. “You spent the whole day in the saddle yesterday just like I did,” he grumbles as he takes the goblet. His voice echoes into it. “Why aren’t you whining about your backside being sore or your legs being wobbly like you normally do?”

Merlin grits his teeth. Trust Arthur, dollophead that he is, to start teasing Merlin (and about his backside, of all things!) this early in the morning. “Well, I suppose it’s because I had a quiet evening helping Gaius do research. Gave me a chance to rest up.”

Arthur grunts. It should not sound as good as it does. Merlin quietly contemplates some way to get Arthur to throw him out - he’s not handling being around Arthur very well right now – but Arthur is sleepy-slow and apparently feeling indulgently lazy this morning. He flops down into his chair and picks at his breakfast. “What was it you and Gaius were researching?”

Merlin busies himself pulling out clothes. “How to help the Druid girl.”

“Ah. Yes, my father said that Gaius was trying to look into a remedy for her curse.” He picks up an apple and tosses it from hand to hand. “Do you think that’s possible?”

“Yeah,” Merlin turns to Arthur and nods. “In fact, Gaius thinks he may have found something.” He drops his gaze to the shirt that he’s holding. “If it works, do you think Uther will let her go?”

“Well, he’s promised to give her a fair trial. Yesterday the guards brought in a man from the girl’s village who says he can speak to the truth of what happened to her.”

Merlin looks up. “What does he say?” Arthur’s eyes narrow and Merlin realizes he’d being just a bit too anxious. “Gaius will want to know, I’m sure.” Merlin adds in a rush.

“He corroborates her story. Apparently she defended herself against a man and accidentally killed him. And the man she killed was known for drinking heavily and getting aggressive with the local girls.” Arthur frowns, disgusted. Merlin knows he’s harshly disciplined his own men for such things. He is staunchly protective of the innocent and hates the idea of the strong taking advantage of the weak. “His dying really was an accident. The girl pushed him off of her and tried to run away, but he was quite intoxicated and he fell and struck his head on a rock.”

“So with that being known, do you think your father has it in him to find leniency for someone who was cursed by magic?”

Arthur’s mouth twists into an odd sort of frown. “You know, a few weeks ago I wouldn’t have thought so. In fact, a few weeks ago I suspect he’d have had the girl brought to the square and beheaded the moment she was in his custody.” His eyes drop to the table where he flips a spoon around. “But that was before my mother. Seeing her has tempered him.” The scowl smooths out into a wry grin then. “Although he wasn’t very tempered yesterday when I told him what I’d done with the lands in Othanden.”

Merlin can’t help but laugh. “I take it that didn’t go over well?”

“Uh, no.” Arthur shakes his head in an abrupt motion. “He was less than pleased. Even after I told him that Lancelot and Percival saved our lives on the ride back from Ealdor.” He lifts a brow at Merlin. “How many bandits attacked us and tried to take the Lady Morgana? Was it seven, Merlin? Eight?”

That it takes him a moment to catch on Merlin blames on his being so out of sorts. “Uh, Nine, actually. I think.” He manages after a moment, grinning.

Arthur grins back. “Morgana was quite distraught when she told the story, I’ll admit.” He winks.

“Did that change your father’s mind at all?” Merlin asks with a laugh. Leave it to Morgana to step in when a good dose of dramatics was called for.

Shrugging, Arthur says, “Possibly.” His face screws up in a reluctant grimace. “Alright, probably. But don’t tell Morgana I said so.”

Merlin nods dutifully. “So then it’s official. Lancelot and Percival can come to Camelot and will be allowed to become Knights?”

“Yes.” Arthur confirms with a tight jerk of his chin. The smile is still there but it seems less… somehow.

The mention of Lancelot, Merlin realizes. And what that means for Arthur and Gwen. Merlin wants to say something, he really does. But he just can’t bring himself to do it. Arthur is all about sacrifice. His life for his people, his personal advancement for duty, his own happiness for the happiness of someone he cares for. Merlin knows it’s too late to change anything now.

He’s struck, suddenly, with another sensation in his belly. This one is panic. Did he, unknowingly, influence Lancelot because of his own feelings? Could he have done something so selfish, so terrible without even realizing it? The thought makes him feel sick.

“Merlin?” Arthur frowns. “What is it? You look as if you’ve just swallowed a toad?” He snorts. “Or one of Gaius’ awful concoctions.”

Merlin turns back to the wardrobe, waving away Arthur’s concern. “It’s nothing, Sire. Perhaps I’m just a bit more affected by yesterday’s day in the saddle than I realized.”

“Ahh, catching up with you is it?” He hears Arthur stand and move to walk behind him. “Maybe you should take it easy today. Rest up.”

He already knows this is a set-up so that Arthur can quash his hopes of a day off, but he plays along because it makes Arthur happy. “Really?” He turns, eager as can be.

Arthur opens his mouth – and from the smarmy look on his face he’s just about to shoot Merlin down – but then he closes it again and tilts his head. “Really.” He says softly.

They stare at each other, unblinking, for a long moment. Arthur comes back to himself first and he looks away. “I mean, if you’re really so very tired and worn out that I won’t be able to get a good day’s work out of you.” There’s a harshness to his tone that’s out of place.

Merlin shakes his head rapidly – not that Arthur’s looking at him anymore. “No, that’s not necessary, my Lord. I’m fine. Ready to work.”

Arthur slaps his hands together and gives a jerky nod. “Good. That’s good. Too much to do today.” He snatches the shirt Merlin’s holding out his hands. “In fact, I’ve got to get going. Can’t be late to practice or my Knights might start to think it’s alright to have a lie-in in the mornings.”

“Right,” Merlin forces a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want that.” He sets the rest of Arthur’s clothes for the day on the table. “I’ll just uh, get your armor then.”

“Right,” Arthur agrees, stepping behind the changing screen.

As he’s dressing, Arthur recites a list of chores for Merlin to complete. He tacks on some additions that will keep Merlin occupied most of the day. That answers his question about whether or not he’ll be able to join Gaius when he visits Freya. Although, he finds himself partially relieved at having that decision taken away from him.

Once Merlin has Arthur suited up for practice he starts to pick up the room (honestly, he spends most of his time in here cleaning up after Arthur, he doesn’t know how the room manages to get so cluttered in such a short time) when Arthur stops at the door. “Well, come along, Merlin.”

“Sorry?” He looks up from where he’s reaching for a discarded shirt that somehow ended up underneath the table.

“You’re coming down to the practice field.”

“I am? But,” he thumbs over his shoulder. “I have to get to the stables and then down to the armory…” he trails off at the impatient look being cast his way.

“Yes, and you can get to those things later. Right now you’re coming with me to the practice field.”

“Uh, why?”

“Merlin, are you going to question every instruction I give you from here on out?”

Considering the glare on Arthur’s face, Merlin just shakes his head. “No, of course not, my Lord.” He can’t help himself though. He has to ask. “It’s just you’ve given me a list of chores that’s gonna take the better part of the whole day to complete.”

“And complete them you _will_. But first you’re coming down to the practice field.”

“What for?”

Arthur actually makes a noise that sounds like, “Urgggghhh,” and clenches a fist. “You’re infuriating, Merlin. Do you know that?” He walks back into the room and doesn’t stop until he’s almost nose to nose with Merlin. “I know you may not remember it, what with being an idiot, but I told you’d I’d come up with a suitable punishment for your lying.”

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Right. That”

“That indeed.” Arthur grins but it’s not a very friendly expression (although, his eyes are still bright with amusement). “I think that my Knights need to work on their spear throwing skills. We’ll need a runner to fetch them, won’t we?”

Merlin has to bite his lip to stop a groan escaping. Spears are heavy and ungainly and running back and forth from the throwing point to the target with them is exhausting work.

Arthur’s gaze drops down to Merlin’s mouth where he’s tugging at his bottom lip with his teeth to stop himself complaining.

That focus, the kind Merlin rarely sees off the battlefield, is intense and despite his earlier efforts to quash such feelings the odd, mildly uncomfortable sensation returns making his lower belly go tight. It’s ridiculous, Merlin knows that, but he’d challenge anyone to feel nothing with Arthur’s eyes fixed on them like a falcon spying its prey. He needs to stop this before he does something truly embarrassing.

“Arthur?”

“Hmmm?” Arthur hums distractedly.

He licks his lips, nervous. “You’re going to be late. For practice, I mean. The men will be waiting.”

Arthur blinks and then steps back abruptly. “Right, of course. If you’d just stop prattling on we’ll go.” He swings an arm, inviting Merlin to lead. “Come on, Merlin, we haven’t got all day.”

It’s far easier to just ignore any of that than try and make sense of what just happened, so that’s what Merlin does. He heads for the door and Arthur trails after him.

When Merlin collapses in his bed that night he’s asleep almost before his head hits the pillow. Of course, that means Gaius barges in only a few minutes later. “Merlin, where have you been?”

“Arthur,” he manages to mumble into his pillow. It’s all the explanation he can manage.

Luckily Gaius gets it and makes an understandingly sympathetic sound. He sits down at the foot of Merlin’s bed. “Well, you missed out on the excitement. I gave the Druid girl the potion earlier.”

That wakes Merlin up. He rolls over and sits up in the bed. “And what happened.”

“Well, based on the report from the man from Freya’s village, Uther agreed that if the potion worked, she deserved to be set free. He has, of course, put out a bounty on the sorceress who cast the curse.”

“Of course,” Merlin agrees wryly. Not that he objects. The woman who cursed Freya knew what she was doing and that her actions would result in the deaths of innocents. Those deaths were on her hands, not Freya’s. Thinking of the beast, Merlin looks up towards the window. “What time is it?”

“After midnight.” Gaius crows. “Uther set his guards to keep watch on her and naturally when the bells struck the hour, she didn’t transform.”

“So he believed your cure worked, then!”

“That’s what will be reported to him in the morning.”

Of course, Merlin thinks, Uther wouldn’t let himself be disturbed this late over so trivial a matter. “And then Freya will go free?”

Gaius frowns slightly. “Yes, but Uther has insisted she leave Camelot. The man from her village will escort her back there.”

Merlin nods. That is no less than he expected. “Well, he’s letting a druid go free, Gaius. That’s miraculous enough where Uther is concerned.”

“Very true, my boy.” He stands. “Now I think we should both get some sleep. Goodnight, Merlin.”

“Good night, Gaius.” Merlin lays back down when Gaius closes the door behind him. Thankfully, despite his now actively churning mind, his body’s fatigue is enough to drag him back to sleep.

Merlin doesn’t get to speak to Freya before she’s ushered out of the city the next morning, but he watches her go from Arthur’s window. Arthur is a bit more forgiving in his chore-list the next day as well (at least he refrains from insisting Merlin perform hours of manual labor on the practice fields before completing his regular duties) and a few days after that he must consider Merlin’s ‘punishment’ summarily complete because Merlin life falls back into routine.

Within a matter of two weeks Lancelot and Percival come to Camelot. Arthur’s mood worsens for a while, and Merlin does his best to either stay out of Arthur’s way, or be at his beck and call (and sometimes it’s hard to tell which he’d prefer). The most relaxing parts of that time are actually the nights that he’s able to meet Morgana for training. She grows more and more proficient each time they work together and Merlin is quite pleased at her progress.

Of course she also loves to use that time to gossip about everything going on. Naturally her favorite topic of conversation is the budding romance between Lancelot and Guinevere. He’s courting her very traditionally and – at least as far as Gwen has told Morgana (and Merlin has tried to protest that he doesn’t want to know) – chastely.

She’s also reported to Merlin that Gwen is wearing a lovely new pendant and blushing anytime she’s complimented on it. Merlin then has to explain the origins of it (he’d already told her most of the whole story of Borden and the Dragon’s egg and Balinor, to which she’d only protested once about not being invited along) and give her the silver rabbit he bought for her (which she adores).

Naturally, once Arthur catches sight of it and when she very airily mentions it’s from a ‘secret admirer’, he goes into a sulk that lasts for days. He’s moody to everyone, and hardly speaks to Merlin except to issue orders and complain, and nothing Merlin does for three whole days goes without harsh critique. Even when he does something extra special, like washes Arthur’s floor, it’s, “You’re quite useless, Merlin. All you’re doing is just pushing the dirt around.” Or if he brings Arthur a meal prepared in the kitchens it’s met with, “What is this tripe? No, not even tripe is this terrible. It’s fit for the dung heap.” Even Percival takes Merlin aside and asks if there’s anything he can do to calm Arthur down because _he’s_ hard pressed to keep up with Arthur during practice.

Eventually, Arthur’s mood settles. Percival and Lancelot are performing far above expectations and Uther is forced to admit that they’re a fine addition to the Knighthood (although Arthur admits that his father warned him that if he tried that stunt again, Uther would disinherit Arthur of all his lands. Merlin doesn’t know if that was a joke or not, he suspects Arthur doesn’t either).

One thing that Merlin hasn’t heard any whispers of though is Uther’s acknowledgement of Morgana as his daughter. He’s given it enough time, he decides and has already figured out a way to reveal the truth to Morgana without painting Uther in too harsh a light (which was no easy task). So it’s a simple enough matter to put his plan in motion.

There are several couriers who travel to Camelot regularly from various locations in the Five Kingdoms. Merlin has to wait for one coming from the East. He leaves word that he’s looking for the courier from Essetir with the both the eastern gate guard and Tom the barkeep at The Rising Sun. It’s easy enough to excuse his interest, as he actually does have a letter he wants to send back to his parents in Ealdor.

It’s a guard, one of the men he helped Gaius save after Morgause’s attack, who finds him first. He tracks Merlin down in person, when Merlin is working in the stables.

“Merlin,” the guard, a man called Farren, calls out to him as he rolls a straw and muck filled wheelbarrow outside.

“Farren!” Merlin greets. “You’re looking well. I hadn’t realized you were back to duty yet.”

“For almost a week now. All thanks to you and Gaius.” Farren is a swarthy, dark-skinned man, but the scar from Morgause’s blade is still stark across the length of his arm. Had Gaius been any less skilled, it’s possible he might have lost the arm entirely.

“Well, Gaius much more than me.” Merlin dumps the wheelbarrow into the dungheap. “What can I do for you? Are you still having pains? Do you need Gaius?” He makes a motion towards the keep, ready to fetch the physician if necessary.

Farren flexes the arm. “Not much pain anymore. And no, I was looking for you, actually. Word down at the Western Gate is that you’re looking for the Courier bound from Essetir. He’s just come through.”

“Did he mention where he’d be headed first?”

“No,” Farren shakes his head. “But he carried a about as much road dust as that wheelbarrow of yours, so I’d suspect he’ll head for the tavern first.”

“Thank you,” Merlin says with a quick nod. “Sorry to rush off. “ He upends the wheelbarrow against the stone wall.

Farren waves that away. “Nah, you go on. Those messengers can be difficult folk to track down when you have need of them.”

Merlin lifts a hand in thanks and then hurries down the street to the lower city and the Rising Sun. There are other taverns in the city limits, those the locals favor, but the ‘Sun is the one that’s most commonly visited by travelers. It has a good reputation – the owner a decent sort – and folk in the lower town are quick to steer strangers there.

Pausing outside a moment, Merlin dusts himself off and splashes his hands in a rain barrel as he doesn’t want to go in smelling of horse. When he enters it’s easy to spot the man he’s looking for: he’s wearing the bright orange tabard of the courier service.

Merlin takes a seat opposite him. “Hi. You’ve just come from Essetir, is that right?”

The man nods. “Aye, I have. And I’m on my way back there tomorrow. Have you a message you need delivered?”

Merlin pulls a sealed letter out of his coat pocket. “Yes, I need this delivered to Hunith of Ealdor. I have the coin to pay.” He makes a show of digging back into his pocket while the Courier takes out a ledger and a stick of charcoal from a heavy satchel that’s on the bench next to him.

“Hunith of Ealdor you say?”

Merlin nods and then watches the man carefully write his mother’s name and the name of the town on an empty page in his ledger.

“That’ll be two silver.” He holds out a hand.

“Right,” Merlin reaches to hand over the coin but bumps his elbow into the table, knocking one of the coins loose. It lands on the table top and rolls to the edge. While the Courier tracks it with a hand, ready to slap down to grab it, Merlin eyes the open ledger. With a quick flash of his eyes a page turns and a new name and location are scrawled into the previous page which shows the scheduled Camelot deliveries.

By the time the errant silver piece has been caught, Merlin is staring innocently ahead and the ledger is flipped back to the correct page. “Sorry!” he exclaims as he more carefully hands over the second coin. “I’m glad you caught that. You’ve got quick hands.”

The courier grunts. “Is that it then?”

Merlin nods. “Yeah. Thank you.” He stands. “Why don’t you let me buy you one.” He gestures to the almost empty tankard. “I imagine doing all those deliveries is thirsty work.”

Though he eyes Merlin with a bit of suspicion, the courier doesn’t object. Merlin goes to the bar to request another ale and when it’s handed over he carries it back to the courier. “Thanks again,” he says once the man accepts it. “My Mum is worried about me, so she likes it when I write to her.”

The courier is not a very chatty man. He just lifts the tankard up to Merlin in a gesture of thanks and gets to drinking. Merlin, on the other hand, is fully capable of being as loquacious as he needs to be. He babbles to the man – who looks less than thrilled, but willing to listen as long as there’s ale in his mug – about his mother and Ealdor and Arthur and lots of other little things.

All the while, Merlin’s managed to drop another letter to the floor at his feet beneath the table and is slowly guiding the thing (using magic) around the table leg and along the bottom of the bench so the he can work it into the Courier’s satchel. Whenever the man’s gaze starts to drift away from his drink, Merlin slaps a hand on the table in emphasis and once even reaches out to clap a hand on the man’s arm (once only, because it earns him a glare that suggests even another drink won’t see that ending well a second time).

Finally when the sealed parchment is tucked away and the Courier’s satchel is tied shut once again, Merlin stands. “Well, thanks again.”

If the courier is puzzled by Merlin’s odd bout of chatter and abrupt end to it, he doesn’t show it. He responds to Merlin’s farewell with his curt nod and grunt routine.

Merlin hurries out of the tavern and heads back to the stables. Now all he has to do is wait for a certain letter to be delivered.

Later that evening, when he’s running a basket of Arthur’s laundry down to the kitchens, Gwen stops him in the corridor. She looks frantic and Merlin knows why.

“Merlin,” Gwen asks. Her fingers are clenched in a tight knot. “Have you seen Lady Morgana.”

“Not today.” He frowns down at her. “Is something wrong, Gwen? You look troubled.”

Gwen glances down the length of the corridor in both directions. There’s no one in sight but still she leans forward and speaks in a hushed tone. “I think something has upset Morgana. When I went to check on her after dinner she wasn’t in her room, but her room was a mess, and her dishes were smashed and her mirror was shattered.” She clutches at Merlin’s arm, squeezing down in a fierce grip. “Merlin, I’m worried something terrible has happened, and I can’t find her anywhere. Do you think we should go to Arthur?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet anyway.” He pats Gwen’s hand comfortingly. “Let me see if I can find her first.”

“Oh thank you, Merlin.” She sighs and her shoulders slump in relief. “Do you think I should keep searching as well?”

“Um, why don’t you go back to Morgana’s room? She may return there. If I don’t find her I’ll come get you there and we can go to Arthur together.”

Gwen bobs her head vigorously. “That’s a good idea, Merlin. I’ll get her room straightened out.” She nods down at the basket Merlin is carrying. “Why don’t I take that as well. That way you can get to looking and I’ll need to take some of Morgana’s things down to launder anyway.”

“Thanks.” He hands over the basket and cups Gwen’s shoulder a moment. “Don’t worry, Gwen, I’ll find her. It’ll be okay.”

She gives his fingers a quick squeeze and then heads back towards the living quarters.

Merlin ducks down a different hallway the moment Gwen is out of site, and then hastens to the dungeons. He has a feeling he knows exactly where Morgana has gone.

He knows he’s on the right track when he finds the first set of guards asleep at their post (he probably shouldn’t have taught Morgana the sleep spell…). He’s halfway down the long staircase that leads to the dragon’s cavern when the sound of something loud and crashing almost makes him miss a step. He hurries after that, especially when that sound is followed by three more similar concussive blasts.

When he gets to the base of the stairs and the ledge, Merlin’s attention is first drawn to the fireball that’s hurtling across the dark cavern. It slams into the distant stone with a loud whoosh. He looks to Morgana then, and his breath leaves him in a rush as a frisson of fear works its way down his spine.

“Morgana.” He says softly; both to not startle her and because there’s an uncontrollable tremble in his voice.

Morgana is standing right at the very edge of the ledge, the toes of her shoes overhanging it entirely. Her hair is disheveled, her eyes are wild and she has her hands outstretched as she starts to cant another spell.

 _This_ is the Morgana that is capable of evil. The Morgana who hates and who fears and can lose herself to darkness…

He finds his voice and calls out again. “Morgana!”

She startles and her hands drop. The motion sets her off balance and her feet step out for a surface that isn’t there. She starts to fall.

Merlin acts without thinking. Like when he first came to Camelot and saved Gaius by sliding a bed beneath him as he fell from the balcony, Merlin moves Morgana herself. Her whole body lifts several feet, flies backwards and then drops – gently, Merlin slows time itself for that part – to the stone floor of the ledge.

For a moment she just sits there wide-eyed and blinking. And then she looks up at him and cries out, “Merlin!” And it’s a devastated sound.

Merlin practically flies himself across the few feet that separate them and he falls to his knees and catches her up in his arms.

She sobs. Huge, wracking sobs that shudder through her whole body. All Merlin can do is hold her and pat her back and make soothing, nonsense sounds. He has no idea what else to do for her. For many long minutes he just rocks her gently and strokes a hand down her hair and lets her cry.

“Shhhh, Morgana. It’s okay.” He can feel the neck of his tunic growing damp, but her sobs are finally tapering off to hiccupping little gasps. “C’mon, Morgana. Talk to me. What’s the matter?”

She finally draws back, and her face is a mess. Blotchy and puffy and wet. But that blankness and coldness and fury are gone and she’s just Morgana again. Merlin unties his kerchief and hands it to her. She takes it with a grateful little smile and a half-hearted laugh. “Is that why you carry these?” She asks after using it to mop at her face. “For damsels in need of a good cry?”

“Of course,” Merlin says with put-upon gallantry. “My Lady.” He swipes a thumb over her chin where a teardrop has escaped her efforts. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She drops her head, butting her forehead against his neck. He’s not sure what to make of that, until her hand comes up and she’s holding a letter. “Read it,” she says, her sharp exhale hot on his neck (which feels oddly bare without the kerchief).

He doesn’t need to, since he wrote it, but she doesn’t know that. He takes the crumpled parchment and smooths it out. The wax seal bearing the crest of the House of Gorlois is broken into pieces.

“Aloud.” She instructs. “I need to hear it again.”

“Of course,” Merlin agrees. He starts to read. “My dearest, Morgana. Beloved daughter, if you are receiving this letter then Abigail must be nearing the end of her years.” He pauses to ask, “Abigail?”

“My nursemaid throughout my childhood.”

“Ah, right. She was the one who lives in the south of Essetir, is she not? The one you said you were going to visit.”

Morgana nods. Her hair tickles Merlin’s chin. “Yes. She retired there after my father died and after I came to live here in the Castle… after he…” she breaks off with a sniffle.

“I’ll keep reading.” Merlin offers. “Abigail must be nearing the end of her years,” he recites. “I will ask her to hold this letter for me. I do not even know if I will ever ask her to send it. I suppose I will decide once I’ve said all I need.

“Morgana, my beloved child, already you are the light in an otherwise dim life. It is important that I tell you that I love your father. Gorlois is a good and fine man. He cares for me, and you are his greatest joy. But you must also know that in many ways Gorlois and I are strangers. He is often away at the behest of the King, and so much of my life has been occupied with fear that he may fall in battle—“

“He did,” Morgana interrupts. “My father died fighting for Uther.” His name is twisted in her mouth. “It seems my mother was right to worry.”

“Morgana, I—“

“Keep going, please.”

“You must understand,” Merlin reads on, “that I do not wish to deceive Gorlois, nor do I wish to hurt him. He will never know this truth. He loves you as a father should. You must also know that Uther is a man lost in sorrow. His beloved Ygraine, my dearest friend, died in childbirth and he is alone. In him, I have found someone who understands my fear and loneliness.

“It was a moment of weakness for both of us. Two lost friends looking for comfort in one another. I know that infidelity is the worst of sins, but it is one that Uther and I are guilty of. To both my joy and my sorrow you, Morgana, are the result of that union. I am sorry to leave you with this terrible truth, but Gorlois is not your true father.”

Morgana is weeping again, Merlin can feel the tears dripping onto his neck, and he pauses to curl his arm tighter around her. “I’m so sorry.”

She sniffles. “There’s more.”

Even though he knows that this is for the best, and will save Morgana from herself, Merlin hates putting her through this. He forces himself to keep reading. “Gorlois will never know. He thinks you were birthed early. You were a tiny thing, so it was not a hard truth for him to accept. He knows only love for you. I have shared the truth with Uther and made him swear upon the soul of Ygraine that he will never share this truth with you or Gorlois, even after I am gone.

“The Court physician tells me that I may not survive the winter, so I will never know you as I should. I am sorry to leave you alone in this world, but I know that you will be well-loved and looked after. Uther has sworn to me that he will provide for you and Gorlois for all your days. And I know Gorlois will love you with all that he is. I am sorry, my daughter. Know that I will love you, always.

“Your mother knew she was dying?” Merlin asks, though he knows the answer (Gaius spoke of it once).

“She was very sick. I don’t remember her well.” Morgana tells him. “She died when I was still very young. It was my father who raised me. He was everything to me for so long.” She sniffles.

Merlin knows this. That’s why he made a point of emphasizing Gorlois’ love for her in the letter. The rest of the details came from discussions with Gaius and Geoffrey and others who knew Morgana’s parents. Some of it is pure fiction. Particularly the bit about Vivienne gaining Uther’s promise to keep the truth of Morgana’s parentage a secret.

He’s hopeful it will be enough to keep Morgana from turning the whole of the blame on Uther and driving that final wedge between them. Her feelings for Uther have always run hot and cold but his recent softening on the treatment of sorcerers and those with magic has done much to turn Morgana’s mood warm again.

“So,” he says gently, “Uther is your real father. That means Arthur is your half-brother.” He feels her nod against his shoulder. “Well, I’m sorry about that.”

That earns him a soft chuckle, albeit a brief one. “What am I to do, Merlin? Should I confront Uther about this? What do you think he’ll do? Will he even acknowledge me?”

“I think you need to talk to him about this. It sounds as if your Mother made him promise to never let you know that Gorlois wasn’t your real father. Perhaps that’s why he’s never said anything. He knows what your father meant to you. Maybe he was trying to protect you.”

Morgana snorts inelegantly. “I don’t know, Merlin. Does that sound like Uther to you?”

Merlin shrugs – well sort of, considering Morgana is half draped over one shoulder – and says, “A few weeks ago, I might have said no, but lately?” He lifts the unoccupied shoulder. “Maybe it’s closer to the truth than we might believe.”

“But all these years, Merlin.” She pulls back slightly to look at him. Half her face is in shadow and it makes her frown look all the more sinister. “He’s had the chance to tell me the truth all these year and he never did.”

“He’s treated you like a daughter, though.” Merlin points out.

Morgana scoffs. “He put me in the dungeon once because I disagreed with him. That’s not something a father does.”

That’s not a memory Merlin wants her thinking about, since he knows how close she came to being the cause of Uther’s death. “Yes,” Merlin agrees then has to point out, “but he’s put Arthur in the dungeon as well.” He doesn’t say it, but he remembers how he used to think – before the truth came out - that Uther treated his ward better than his own son. “Maybe he’s just really bad at expressing his feelings.” He huffs out an amused breath. “Arthur has to have inherited that from someone.”

He gets another laugh from her, followed by a tired-sounding sigh. “If you put it like that, I guess he’s never treated me worse than Arthur. Even if I were acknowledged as his daughter, who’s to say it would be different. I just wish I knew why he didn’t tell me.”

“You’ll have to ask him that.” Merlin replies.

“So you think I should confront Uther then.”

It’s not a question but Merlin answers anyway. “I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“What do you think he’ll do?” She asks. “Do you think he’ll deny me?”

Merlin can tell she’s terrified this might happen. He tries to set her mind at ease. “No, I don’t think he’d do that. He loves you, Morgana. He may not have told you the truth himself, but now that you know, I don’t think he’d deny it.”

“He won’t be happy,” she says sadly. Merlin can tell she’s already mourning the loss of any joyful father-daughter revelations that might have been.

“Maybe not at first,” Merlin is forced to agree. “Uther is a man who puts his Kingdom and rule first above all. He’ll be concerned what this will mean for Camelot.”

Morgana twists and tugs at a lock of her own hair that’s fallen loose from the pins holding it up. “I hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell him at all?”

Merlin shakes his head firmly. “No, I think you should. You can’t let a secret like this fester between you two, Morgana. And I say that for your sake, not Uther’s. You deserve to be acknowledged, Morgana. I know you are compassionate, and you don’t want to cause any strife, but you shouldn’t hide this. Show Uther the letter and let him explain his side.”

“You’re right. You’re right and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” She wraps her arms fully around him and squeezes tight. “Thank you, Merlin. I don’t think I could’ve gotten through this without you. If you hadn’t come when you did…I don’t know what I might’ve done…,” she trails off and Merlin hugs her back just a bit desperately for a moment. He doesn’t know what she might have done either. Even though his main focus is Arthur, he wants to save Morgana almost as much.

He feels her pulling away, so he loosens his hold and starts to lean back. Merlin ducks his head just as Morgana looks up and their faces come only inches apart. Morgana closes that distance, pressing her lips to his.

His eyes go wide and he wrenches his head aside and scrambles away, trying to keep from physically pushing her back from him. “Morgana, I’m sorry…” He can feel the damp on his lips from her tears.

She blinks at him, her eyes still glistening and so, so wide.

“Morgana… you’re so lovely and… you’re my friend and I do care about you. But, I can’t… It’s just…”

To his surprise, Morgana doesn’t look offended, merely chagrinned. She sniffs and wipes at her eyes with the long trail of a sleeve and then nods. “I understand, Merlin. It’s Arthur.”

He sighs in relief, “Yes, exactly.” Then he realizes what he might have just suggested. “I mean, no. Not… exactly. Not like that—“

“It’s okay, Merlin.” Morgana says, and this time there’s a bit of devilry in her smirk. “I always suspected you know. I know you want to keep it a secret, but I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Merlin gapes. “Morgana, no. It’s not… it’s not like that.”

But all Morgana does is pat him sympathetically on the arm. “Don’t worry, Merlin. I won’t say anything. I can’t say that I understand.” She frowns. “And I don’t think that’s an easy or very happy path you’ve chosen for yourself, but I will keep your secret.” She takes a deep breath. “Now, when I confront Uther with this, I want you there.”

The abrupt change in topics leaves Merlin’s head spinning. He decides immediately that he’s just going to ignore the last few minutes – better to pretend they never happened – and focus on helping Morgana. “Umm, I don’t know how that’s going to be possible.”

He’s about to suggest that she might want to consider her timing carefully when he catches her expression. “You’ve already got something in mind, don’t you?” He does not groan.

“Yes. It’s simple enough. You’ll tend to Arthur during our dinner with Uther tomorrow night.”

“But I thought your maid usually tended you during dinner?”

Morgana waves that away easily enough. “Oh, I’ve been giving Gwen evenings off. Now that Lancelot’s in Camelot I thought she might appreciate a little more time to herself.”

“Evenings off,” Merlin grumbles to himself. “Must be nice.”

“So tomorrow I’ll arrange it that Gwen won’t be available, and you’ll offer to help out.”

“I don’t really know what you want me to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything, Merlin. I just…,” she shrugs and sighs. “I just need a friend there with me. I need to know that I’ll be able to see you there.” Her gaze falls to her hands. “If I should falter in speaking out, I just know that if you’re there, it will give me the strength I need.”

He nods, albeit reluctantly. “Alright, Morgana. I will do as you ask.” He wags a cautioning finger. “But if this gets me threatened by the King again, I’m blaming you.”

“Why would Uther threaten you?”

Merlin shrugs and the motion is all loose sarcasm. “Oh, I don’t know. Because he may not want any witnesses to finding out about you being his daughter.”

“Arthur will be there,” she points out.

“Yeah. That’s true.” He lets the scenario play out in his head a moment. “Do you think you should tell Arthur first, though? I mean, it might be better if he heard it from you first.” Arthur’s not going to be happy about being excluded. Merlin knows it will hurt him.

“I don’t think I can, Merlin.” She says regretfully. “I need some time to process all this and you know Arthur. As soon as he finds out he’s going to want to charge headlong to Uther and confront him. He sometimes acts first, without thinking things through.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees with a frown. “And that’s just another reason for me to worry. It’s bad enough he thinks there’s something going on between us. When he finds out you’re his sister, that’ll just make him worse.”

It’s not until after he says it that Merlin realizes this puts them back into the uncomfortable territory he was trying to avoid.

“Merlin,” Morgana places a hand on his cheek, touching it just briefly before drawing her fingers away. “I… I like you. You’re my dear friend. You must know I’d never want to cause you any trouble with Arthur.” She blushes, which looks fetching despite her puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. “I’m sorry I tried to kiss you.”

“It’s alright.” He says, feeling rather unsure if that’s true.

“No, Merlin. I shouldn’t have… I was sad and just feeling so lost and you were there. I don’t want you to misunderstand my feelings. I mean,” she looks down demurely, “that’s not to say I _couldn’t_ feel that way. You’re quite special, Merlin. But, you’re too important to me as a friend to risk losing.” Her eyes flick up again, and in the dancing torchlight they’re a dazzling, fiery emerald. “Forgive me?”

“Of course.” He nods, possibly a bit over-zealously. He thinks, perhaps, he ought to return the compliment she just paid him. “And you’re important to me, Morgana. I cannot express what your friendship has meant to me.” Which is a genuine sentiment. He never knew he could care for Morgana Pendragon as much as he does. “If things were different, I mean…” he trails of, not quite sure where he’s going.

“If there wasn’t Arthur.” Morgana suggests kindly.

Merlin looks down, unable to meet her eyes as he swallows heavily. “Yeah,” he admits. “But it’s not…,” He glances up, sees her arching brow and then adds a sheepish, “It’s not _only_ that. It’s something else. My whole life is bound to Arthur. It is my destiny to serve him, and to see him protected.”

“You know he will likely have to marry someone that Uther decides will make a beneficial match for Camelot.” She’s not saying this to be cruel, Merlin knows.

“I know. I don’t… I’m not sure if I can explain it, Morgana. If things had worked out differently for Arthur with Gwen, I’d have been happy for them. For him.”

She frowns. “But doesn’t it also hurt?”

He can only shrug. “Nothing is as important to me as making sure Arthur survives and fulfills his destiny.” He says it with finality, putting an end to the conversation. There are truths he’s hardly ready to admit to himself, let alone sharing them aloud. He’s already said more to Morgana than he’s allowed himself to consider in careful silence.

“C’mon,” he stands and draws Morgana to her feet. “We should go. Gwen was looking for you before she found me. I imagine she’s quite worried about you.”

“Oh dear.” Morgana holds a hand up to her mouth. “I may have gotten a bit upset when I got the letter. My room’s rather a mess. Poor Gwen.”

“I’m sure she’ll just be glad to know you’re okay.” He takes up the torch from the wall sconce and escorts Morgana up the long staircase. “What are you going to tell her?”

“I think I’d like her to know the truth,” Morgana replies. “I’ve kept so much from her.” She pauses, foot hovering over the next step, to look over at Merlin for a moment. “Not that I’d tell her about the magic.”

Merlin nods. “I know you wouldn’t.” He trusts Morgana. Which is another of those thoughts he’d never expected to have. He trusts Morgana. “Although someday I hope we can. It’s just the fewer people that know, the safer they are. But, I trust Gwen and I know she’d protect us.”

“She is a good friend to us all. She deserves to know the truth someday.” Morgana agrees.

When he drops Morgana off at her room he stays long enough to see Gwen, who’s face brightens in relief, rush to catch her up in a hug. He closes the door just as a teary-eyed Morgana begins to explain.

The next morning he discovers that things are still on track, at least as far as Morgana’s plan. When Arthur is running through his list of duties for the day, he informs Merlin – in a deliberately disinterested tone, tacking it on almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and apparently Morgana forgot that we had our bi-weekly meal with my father tonight and she’s given Guinevere the night off. You’ll have to attend us.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Arthur stops what he’s doing – reviewing several troop reports that were delivered that morning – and squints at Merlin. “That’s it?”

Wary – because that expression leads to trouble – Merlin just shrugs. “Yes. Was I supposed to say something else?”

“I just said that Gwen’s been given the night off.” His eyes narrow further and his mouth purses in a frown. “Usually that topic starts you whining and carrying on about how poorly you’re treated.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur raises and lowers his head in an exaggerated nod. “Trust me, it does. So, what is it? Don’t want a night off yourself?”

Merlin knows there’s some odd ground he’s footing here, but he’s just not sure what kind of trap Arthur is setting for him. “Alright then. Can I have a night off?”

“Of course,” Arthur sits back in his chair, spreading his arms magnanimously.

“Great!” Merlin exclaims, because it’s expected (not because he actually thinks he’s getting a night off).

Arthur lifts a finger. “If –“

Merlin groans.

“If,” Arthur continues over him, “you tell me why it was you expected that addition to your duties. You knew about it ahead of time.”

“No I didn’t.” Merlin shakes his head in denial.

“Yes you did.”

“Did not.”

Pushing the chair back with a loud scrape that makes Merlin wince, Arthur stands and comes around the table to where Merlin is making up the bed. “You did, and don’t try to tell me otherwise.” He still has a pointer finger lifted and he uses it to poke Merlin’s chest.

Arthur’s finger is jabbing hard just below Merlin’s collar bone. He lifts the pillow that he’s just put in a freshly laundered cover and uses it to protect himself. “Alright,” he finally concedes, because Arthur is standing too close and there’s a bed behind his knees, preventing him taking a step back. Even the pillow doesn’t stop him noticing the heat of Arthur’s body, or feeling the damp warmth of Arthur’s breath against his face. “Gwen mentioned it last night that she was going to ask for the evening off, but she was worried about not being there for your dinner. So I volunteered to help her out.”

“Ha!” Arthur says triumphantly. “I knew you were hiding something.” He swipes the pillow away with a quick yank and pokes Merlin again.

“Hey,” Merlin squirms away. When he’s a safe distance away, and Arthur isn’t a wall of warmth caging him against his bed (of all things!), Merlin asks, “So since I told you, does that mean I get my night off?”

“No.”

He’s expecting the pillow that gets chucked at his face, so he catches it rather handily. The denial isn’t a surprise either.

“But I told you.” He protests.

“Under coercion.” Arthur crosses his arms. “Not of your own free will.”

Merlin squawks out a noise of derision. “That wasn’t part of your bargain. And I would not call _that_ coercion. It was just you jabbing your finger.” He does not mention the closeness, because that _was_ an effective form of torture.

Arthur glowers. “Merlin, I could do more to you with one finger than you could do to me with your whole body.” He holds out the hand and pointer finger again.

He seems to realize a moment after he’s said it (probably due to the way Merlin’s mouth falls open), just how that could be interpreted. But, Arthur is never one to admit to misspeaking, so he just gives a nod to bolster his message and points the finger at Merlin more squarely.

It’s just too much. When he takes a threatening step forward, Merlin bolts. Discretion really is the better part of valor and if Arthur keeps doing these little things to torment him (he can’t know what it’s doing to Merlin, can he?), Merlin knows one day, soon, he’s going to snap.

Thankfully – for the sake of the precarious hold he has on his libido (and his sanity) – he doesn’t encounter Arthur during the day except in passing. And Arthur is far too preoccupied to do more than acknowledge Merlin with a glance or a quick nod. When dinner comes around that evening, Merlin’s almost relieved to have to spend an hour or so in the company of Uther. Despite his memories of Uther’s end (and the chance he’d had to reveal his magic to Uther’s ghost and force Uther to confront the truth that he was the one who put Merlin at Arthur’s side – to understand just what he’d been responsible for), being in the King’s presence still makes Merlin anxious.

He focuses on serving everyone, setting out plates and trays brought from the kitchen by scullery maids and it’s only when he’s pouring wine that he even looks at Morgana. She’s focused wholly on her meal, not even looking over to Uther as he’s talking of an upcoming council meeting with Arthur.

“Wine, My Lady?” He asks, holding out the pitcher.

She looks up from her plate and he almost misses the cup as he begins to pour. Her skin is ashen and her eyes are wide; she looks terrified. He smiles in as reassuring a way as he can, until she begins to smile back tremulously.

A throat-clearing sound startles Merlin. “I’ll take some wine, Merlin.” Arthur grinds out. His eyes are narrowed and mouth a tight line.

“Of course, Sire.” Merlin hurries over to the other side of the able and is careful as he fills the goblet Arthur is holding out. As it slowly fills, Merlin can see that Arthur’s knuckles are white, and the goblet is shaking minutely from how tightly it’s being held. He glances at Arthur’s face, but it’s a mask staring straight ahead.

A quick flick of his gaze to Morgana shows that she’s frowning at Arthur. Is Arthur glaring at her?

Before Merlin can begin to make out what’s going on Uther interrupts the odd stand-off between Arthur and Morgana. “Morgana, is something the matter? You’ve hardly touched your meal.”

Morgana seems to startle and her head bows again. “I’m sorry. No, I’m fine… I’m…”

Merlin clears his throat and Morgana looks up at him. He gives the barest of nods, and she gives another there-and-gone smile before taking a steadying breath. “The… there is something, actually.” She draws the letter out from under the table. “I received word that Abigail, my childhood nurse, took ill and has passed.”

Uther frowns. “I’m so sorry to hear that, my dear. I know you were quite fond of her.” He reaches out to pat her hand but Morgana moves the letter in its path. “What’s that?”

As unobtrusively as possible, Merlin steps back toward the wall in the shadow of a column. He’s behind Arthur and positioned so that if Morgana looks up, she’ll be able to see him. It’s as much comfort as he can offer now.

Morgana inhales deeply again. “It’s a letter.” She finally raises her head and looks right at Uther. “From my mother.”

Uther’s hand recoils from the parchment and he goes pale, and then almost immediately a dark flush rushes up his face as if the blood drains out and then floods back in double the volume. “Your mother? Where did you come by it?”

“Abigail sent it.” Morgana tells him, her voice firming, gaining confidence. “She’s held it for me all these years. My mother wrote it to me shortly before she died.”

“And wh…what does it say?”

She swings the letter toward him again. “I think you should read it yourself.”

Uther lifts a hand as if to ward off the letters presence. “No, no. I wouldn’t want to intrude on something private.”

“Uther,” Morgana says plaintively, “please.”

Resigned – because Merlin knows he can’t resist a plea from Morgana – Uther takes the letter. He unfolds it slowly and begins to read. Arthur meanwhile – if Merlin is interpreting the side-to-side motions of his head correctly – is looking between his father and Morgana. He can imagine the look of confusion that must be on Arthur’s face.

“Morgana,” Arthur hisses out. “What’s going on?”

Morgana offers him a sympathetic smile, but doesn’t answer.

Uther looks up after a long moment of quiet has settled over the room. He’s pale again, and he lets the letter fall to the tabletop. “You’ve read this?” He asks Morgana and then seems to realize what a ridiculous question it is. He snorts irritably. “What am I saying? Of course you’ve read it.” He can’t seem to meet Morgana’s eye.

“Arthur,” Uther says pointedly, “I think you should leave us.”

“Father, what’s wro—“

Before he can finish, Morgana’s hand darts out and catches Arthur’s wrists. “No, I want him here for this. He deserves to be here.”

Uther nods, somewhat absently. “Very well.”

Arthur tugs his hand free. “What’s going on? What’s this about?”

Ignoring him, Morgana pleads, “Is it true? Is what my mother said true? That she asked you not to tell me?”

Merlin sees the moment Uther realizes he has a lifeline. His eyes go wide, and then narrow in a calculating way. He nods gravely. “Yes, Morgana, it’s true. Everything your mother wrote.”

Even from where he’s standing Merlin can see Morgana’s chin trembling and her eyes fill. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Uther actually gets up from his chair and goes to her. He kneels next to her and takes her hand. “I promised her I wouldn’t, Morgana. And I kept that promise even after your father died because I wanted to keep you safe.” Merlin has to give him credit, he’s thinking quick on his feet. Of course, some of this might be the actual truth coming out. He’d never really understood why Uther never acknowledged Morgana.

“Will someone please tell me just what the hell is going on?”

Uther looks across the table at his son. “Arthur, there’s something you must know. It’s a secret I’ve kept from everyone for a very long time. All of Morgana’s life, actually. After your mother…,” he drops his gaze, “after your mother passed I was alone and in despair. The Lady Vivianne, Morgana’s mother, was a friend and a great comfort to me. For a time, when Gorlois was away, I was a comfort to her as well.”

Merlin sees Arthur’s shoulders stiffen. “You mean you had an affair with Morgana’s mother?” The distaste is strong in his voice.

Uther nods. “Please, Arthur. It was a brief moment of weakness for both of us and we knew it was a mistake. But, there was an unexpected result.”

There’s a beat of silence and then Arthur’s chair flies back, sliding across the floor and then tipping back to clatter almost at Merlin’s feet, as Arthur surges up. “Are you saying that Morgana is _your_ daughter?”

It’s Morgana who confirms it. “Yes, Arthur. I’m your half-sister.” The tears are free-flowing down her cheeks.

Arthur’s fist slamming the tabletop startles them all. “You didn’t tell me this? How could you never tell me I have a sister?”

Uther stands, hands held out in a placating manner. “Arthur, please—“

“No,” Arthur counters fiercely. “I deserved to know this. Were you ever going to tell me?” Merlin sees his head turn – and something in Morgana’s face must affect him because she offers a tentative smile and Arthur’s shoulders slump into a sigh. “Were you ever going to acknowledge her?”

“Arthur, I know this is difficult, but you must understand. I had promised Lady Vivienne that Morgana would never know the truth. I kept that promise while Gorlois lived because I know how much he loved Morgana. He already lost his wife; I couldn’t take his daughter away from him.”

“And after?” It’s Morgana who asks this question. “After my fath… after Gorlois was killed, why did you not tell me then.”

“To protect you,” Uther insists. “To protect both of you. As the heir to the throne, Arthur’s life is always in danger, but if your true parentage was ever known, Morgana, you’d have been as much a target. I swore to Gorlois that I would keep you safe! Even as my ward you’ve been targeted to get at me. Imagine how much worse it would be if the truth were known.

“And Arthur, it was for you as well. Camelot has many enemies who would think that killing my first born and leaving a younger, less experienced heir in your place would be to their benefit.”

Morgana is surprisingly calm – a calm that is oddly not belied by the tears – when she asks, “Would you ever have told me?”

Uther slumps back into his chair heavily. He looks like he’s aged a decade in the last few minutes. “Morgana, I promise you that I have been struggling with that very question these last weeks. I wanted to.” He at least sounds sincere when he says that.

“Then why didn’t you?” Arthur has calmed as well, if his level tone is anything to go by.

“Because there is more to be considered here than just the truth. Something like this will affect all of Camelot and could change things irrevocably. I wanted to figure out the best way to go about it, for the good of us all.”

Uther scrubs at his brow wearily. "Arthur, could I have a moment alone with Morgana. With your sister?” When Arthur hesitates, Uther tacks on a quick, “We’ll talk later though, all of us.”

“Of course father.” Arthur inclines his head. “Come along, Merlin.”

Startled – he’d thought they’d forgotten about him entirely – Merlin jerks into motion and hurries to catch up to Arthur as he strides across the room. He shoots a quick apologetic shrug to Morgana – there’s no way he can stay now, not after he’s been directly called to leave – and she gives a little nod to show she understands.

“Arthur,” Uther calls out before they reach the door. “I think it’s best if we keep this quiet for now.” Merlin finds himself the target of a very pointed, very narrowed gaze.

“I’ll take care of it,” Arthur returns dutifully.

Once they’re in the hall Merlin has to ask. “What did you mean? You’ll take care of it. Take care of what?”

Arthur keeps walking, practically running he’s moving so fast, and Merlin has to scramble to keep up. “Not here.” Is all Arthur says.

When they reach Arthur’s room, Merlin closes the door behind him and leans back against it warily. Arthur is still moving, pacing the room like a penned wolf. “Arthur?” he begins, “are you alright?”

He’s ignored for another several paths back and forth, from one side of the room to the other. Finally, after a sharp pivot Arthur stops near the opposite wall and fixes Merlin with a look so dark and angry that Merlin physically flinches back from it.

“It was bad enough before, Merlin, when she was just the King’s ward. Now that she’s his daughter and,” he hesitates a moment, “my sister and a Princess of Camelot, it’s just _done_ , do you hear me?”

What the hell is he on about? Merlin has no idea why Arthur is looking at him with such naked rage. “Arthur, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

To Merlin’s surprise Arthur spins around and goes over to his cupboard. He throws open the door, reaches in and pulls out a blue cloth. “ _This_ , Merlin. I’m talking about _this_.”

It’s one of Merlin’s kerchiefs. Merlin frowns. Where did Arthur get it? He reaches up to his own neck to confirm he’s still got one tied in place. He does.

Hesitantly, because Arthur’s whole body is shaking with each panting inhale and ragged exhale, Merlin asks, “Uh, where did you get that?”

“Oh,” Arthur replies in a high and imperious tone, “Guinevere was kind enough to drop of my laundry, which apparently she did for you - and don’t think we’re not going to have a talk about you passing off your duties to someone else - and she mentioned she threw this on top because she knew you’d be in here and because she _found it in Morgana’s room_!” He’s shouting by the end.

Merlin’s heart skips and stutters for a moment. He’d forgotten about giving Morgana one of his neck scarves in the dragon’s cavern last night.

“Arthur, I can explain that.”

“I don’t want to hear it Merlin. The only thing I need from you is your word that this stops now.”

“But there’s nothing to stop,” Merlin protests. He’s getting angry despite his best efforts to stay calm. “There is nothing going on between me and Morgana!”

Arthur gives the dangling cloth a twitch. “This says otherwise.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Oh for goodness sake, Arthur, that says nothing of the sort.”

Apparently belligerence is not something Arthur’s in the mood for right now because he stalks towards Merlin and crowds him up against the door. He balls up the kerchief one-handed and thrusts it against Merlin’s chest, holding it there, effectively pinning Merlin. “Then tell me, Merlin, what does it say?”

“It uh, says that I gave it to Morgana because she was crying.” Merlin wishes he could blame the shaky, stutter sound of his voice on fear or anger or anything but the way that Arthur’s pushing into his space. Arthur’s other hand is propped against the door next to Merlin’s head. He could lean against it if he just tilted his head t to the side a fraction. Arthur’s feet are slotted with Merlin’s, their knees bumping when Merlin tries to press back against the door, to give himself just a bit more breathing room.

Arthur notices the retreat; he doesn’t relent, just leans further into Merlin’s space, his knuckles driving with bruising intensity into Merlin’s breastbone. His eyes are dark, shadowed and flinty and Merlin can’t look away from them.

“Why was she crying, Merlin?” Arthur’s breath is warm on Merlin’s neck.

“Look,” he explains frantically, “I ran into Gwen yesterday. She told me that she found Morgana’s room in disarray and she couldn’t find Morgana anywhere. She was very worried, so I volunteered to look for her. I found her and she was hysterical, Arthur. She’d just gotten that letter from her mother and she was so upset… she was just sobbing and so I gave her my scarf to wipe her eyes. That’s it. That’s all.”

Arthur cocks his head to the side. He studies Merlin, expression inscrutable. “So what was that look about earlier? At dinner, I saw you two looking at each other.”

“Oh that?” Damn. He knew helping Morgana out was going to mean trouble for him. “Well, you see, Morgana told me about the letter. What it said, I mean.” Merlin cringes when Arthur’s face suddenly falls. “She asked me not to tell you! She said she wanted to confront Uther with it and she didn’t want you to know yet.” Despite his protest, Merlin recognizes that Arthur sees this as yet another betrayal.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I wanted her to come to you, but she wasn’t ready. She wanted to find out the truth from Uther first.”

“And yet she saw fit to come to you?” Arthur’s voice has an edge to it that feels like he could flay Merlin alive if he were to keep speaking.

Merlin tries to hold up his hands in protest but just succeeds in getting one caught up in Arthur’s bracing arm. Not what he was going for. “When I found her she was distraught. She just needed someone to talk to and I was there. If it had been Gwen who found her, I’m sure she would have done the same.”

“That still doesn’t explain the look at dinner.”

“She asked me to be there. Just for,” he shrugs, bumping his shoulder into Arthur’s arm, “I dunno, moral support.”

“She wanted you there, not Gwen. So Gwen doesn’t know yet?”

“Um,” Damn, this isn’t going to sit well either. He winces peremptorily. “Morgana may have told her after I escorted her back to her room. I don’t know for sure.”

“Then why you?” There’s desperation beneath the sharpness of Arthur’s tone. “Why not Gwen?”

“Because she’d already given Gwen the night off?” It’s weak, and he knows it.

“Ah, so that was a lie this morning? That Gwen asked you to cover for her.”

Merlin drops his gaze to Arthur’s throat. He can’t bear the look in Arthur’s steely eyes – the naked betrayal. “I was only doing what Morgana asked me. She was crying when she asked, Arthur, how could I say no?"

“And that’s all?”

Merlin glances up quickly to see Arthur’s face. He’s got one eyebrow lifted skeptically. “Arthur, Morgana is my friend and I wanted to help her. That’s it. That’s all there is to it. I swear to you. Even if she wanted…, I wouldn’t. I mean, I couldn’t. She deserves so much better. ”

“What about the pendant? The rabbit?” The fact that he’s growling when he says rabbit makes the ‘r’ roll in a way that causes Arthur’s throat vibrate. Merlin is starting to think that Arthur’s eyes are safer to look at. “That was a gift from you, wasn’t it?”

“Arthur, it was nothing—“

“What did Morgana say about it?” He asks with biting rhetoric. “A ‘gift from an admirer’?”

Merlin blows out a breath, “You know how Morgana is. If it could cause intrigue or mystery all the more fun for her.”

“So that morning you were late bringing me breakfast because you were up late the night before rescuing a rabbit. You were with Morgana?”

“What?” Merlin asks sharply, surprised by the question. “No, I really was letting a rabbit go in the wood. Look,” he hurries before Arthur can interrupt, “Morgana saw me with the rabbit when I was sneaking it into the castle. She thought it was cute and took to teasing me for saving it. Later, when I was looking for my father I needed information. I found a silversmith who would tell me what I needed to know, but only for a price. He insisted I buy something from him.”

Arthur nods, like this all makes perfect sense. Which tells Merlin that Arthur isn’t buying it at all. “So, naturally you bought a rabbit for Morgana.”

“No.”

Arthur’s brows ask the question.

“I mean yes, I did. I saw it and it made me think of her. But I also bought a hair comb for my mother and something for Gwen. The flower pendant.”

“The one she got from Lancelot.” The thin line of his mouth tells Merlin that he’s not thrilled about that.

“Yes. I thought it would be better if he gave it to her.”

There’s that nod again. “Yet you didn’t have a second thought about giving Morgana hers?”

Merlin sighs. The interrogation is getting tiring. “I just bought something for everyone I could think of, Arthur. I was in a hurry to get the information I needed and it was the easiest way to do it.”

“ _Everyone_ you could think of, hmmm? Where’s _my_ jewelry then, _Mer_ lin?”

Merlin lifts his chin smugly. “I didn’t get you _jewelry_ , Arthur.”

“There, you see I –“

He interrupts just to see that flash of irritation in Arthur’s eyes. “I got you something else.”

Arthur finally steps back. Merlin doesn’t know if he regrets saying anything or not. His whole body feels chilled without Arthur’s nearness, despite the fact that he feels like he takes the first full breath he’s had since Arthur came toward him.

Arthur looks down at himself and holds his arms out. “I don’t seem to have anything, _Mer_ lin.” He goes so far as to pat at his own chest and down his thighs. Merlin doesn’t need reminding of Arthur’s thighs.

Merlin lets his head fall back against the door with a loud ‘thunk’. Rather harder than he intended. It actually hurts a bit. Fortunately it clears the fog that is Arthur just a little bit. “That’s because I didn’t give it to you yet.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Merlin answers with a shrug. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t given Arthur the dagger yet. He’s even got it stowed away in Arthur’s room (in a cupboard behind one of Arthur’s infrequently worn formal jackets that Merlin conveniently forgets to pull out whenever Arthur has need of one, because he doesn’t like the fit or the color on Arthur) for when the mood strikes.

“Well let’s have it then. I mean, if you got me something, why not give it to me.” And there’s that mocking, disbelieving tone again.

Pushing off the door with a huff, Merlin walks a wide path around Arthur – who is watching him with a smirk that Merlin just wants to wipe off his face – and goes to the cupboard. The door is still open from when Arthur had taken out Merlin’s neck scarf, so he reaches in to the back, shifts around a few stacks of tunics and jackets and finds the cloth wrapped package.

He takes it out, carries it back over to Arthur and hands it over with an unceremonious, “Here.”

Arthur accepts it, still disbelieving but that look is starting to give way to something else. “What is it?”

Merlin sighs heavily. “Just open it, Arthur.”

“Fine.” Arthur snatches the bundle away. He tugs impatiently at the thin rope that secures it, and folds back the linen wrapping in a rush. When the worked-silver tip of the sheath is revealed Arthur pauses a moment, and then continues unwinding the cloth much more carefully.

“There,” Merlin says, too mentally exhausted to be smug. “That’s what I got you.”

Arthur holds the dagger out, studying it carefully. Merlin can see that he’s eyeing the hilt, and the detailing on the pommel. “I hope the information you got was significant,” he says softly.

“It was.” Merlin agrees. “It was worth much more than what I paid, to be honest.”

“This is exquisite.” Arthur says, still in that slightly reverent tone, and is about to say more, the start of a word already off his tongue when he flips the dagger over and catches sight of the pommel decoration on the opposite side. The word is lost in a sharp inhale. “This is my mother’s sigil.” Arthur points out, sounding puzzled. “You couldn’t have just bought this as is.”

“Well, no. Of course not. I mean, I asked for that.” He points vaguely towards the dagger. “The Pendragon mark on one side and your mother’s sigil on the other. Some of the other details were done at the Smiths’ fancy. He wants to make a name for himself, you see.”

Arthur looks over at Merlin then; an odd expression has softened his face and smoothed out the angry lines and creases. “How did you know my mother’s sigil?”

Merlin gestures to Arthur’s desk. “You have that medallion. I know you keep it close to you; I’ve seen it in your pack a few times when we’ve been out of the city.” He looks down at his feet, because the memory of how he really knows is one that makes his chest ache. Arthur may have once asked Merlin to give Gwen his mother’s ring if he didn’t come back from a battle, but he’d given Merlin his mother’s sigil when he was planning on sacrificing his life. Both were items he still carried after Arthur’s death (he should’ve found a way to get the ring to Gwen, but he selfishly couldn’t part with it). “I assumed it must be something of your mothers. So I asked Geoffrey about the symbol on it. Is it right?” He knows it is.

“Yes, Merlin. It’s perfect. Thank you.” Arthur wraps both hands around the dagger and bows his head a moment. “I’m sorry, Merlin.”

Merlin nods before he realizes what Arthur’s said. “You’re… ?”

“Sorry,” Arthur repeats with a bit more force. “I misjudged the situation. I…,” he lifts the dagger. Merlin’s not sure he understands. “It’s just you’ve seemed to have some secret with Morgana lately and I thought… well I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

Merlin feels a stab of guilt, because he does have something secret with Morgana. It’s just not what Arthur thinks it is.

“Oh, well, it’s fine. Really, don’t worry about it, Arthur. So,” he says brightly, “there’s no more reason to be jealous.”

Arthur looks at him sharply.

“I mean, she’s your sister.” He makes a face. “Not that I would, but it’d be much less weird if _I_ did. You know, rather than if _you_ liked her. I mean like that. Eugh.”

Arthur’s mouth falls open. “You think I fancied Morgana?”

Merlin frowns. “Uhm, yeah. Isn’t that what all this is about?”

Arthur carefully sets the dagger down on his bed and then covers his face with his hands and groans. Merlin has absolutely no idea what to make of that.

“Arthur?”

Arthur just continues to make odd, aggravated sounds into his hands.

“Um, Arthur.”

He is ignored. There’s a knock at the door and Merlin leaves Arthur standing in the middle of the room grumbling unintelligibly into his hands to answer it.

Morgana is outside. “Hi, Merlin. Is Arthur here?”

Merlin looks back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I don’t know if he’s going to be of much use to you right now though.”

Frowning, Morgana comes into the room when Merlin opens the door wider. “What’s wrong with him?” Morgana whispers. Well, it’s a loud whisper and there’s laughter in it.

For some reason that’s enough to snap Arthur out of whatever odd mood that’s settled over him. He drops his hands and looks over at Morgana. “Oh, just perfect.” He rolls his eyes.

“Nice to see you too, dear brother.” Morgana quips and the words send a shiver down Merlin’s spine. The inflection is entirely different than the way he’s heard them before (playful and kind rather than vicious and twisted) but it’s still eerie to hear those words again from Morgana’s mouth.

“Merlin,” she turns back to him with a smile. “Could you leave us alone, please? I think Arthur and I need to have a talk.”

Merlin has no problem leaving the two of them alone. He’s still utterly at a loss. “Arthur?” He asks.

Arthur nods. “Go on, Merlin. And,” he pauses looking down to the bed, “thank you.”

Merlin blinks and a blush rushes over his cheeks. Why is Arthur looking at the bed? When it occurs to him, he blames Arthur’s odd behavior for the fact that it takes so long to realize that Arthur is talking about the dagger. “You’re uh, very welcome, Sire.”

He retreats hastily, closes the door behind him, but not before he hears Morgana’s high, pealing laughter.

~~~~~~~~~~

To Merlin’s surprise only a week passes before Uther makes an announcement about Morgana. He’d been expecting the truth to be hidden away or shared only between a select few. So when word comes that Uther is making an official proclamation he’s quite pleasantly surprised.

Uther invites all the nobles and citizens of Camelot alike to witness and Merlin is lucky to get a spot with Gaius up front among the packed crowd (he will fully acknowledge that he took advantage of Gaius’ age to shove unceremoniously through the throng).

Uther stands in front of his throne with Arthur at his left and Morgana his right. Geoffrey waits just below the steps of the dais. “As most of you know,” Uther begins sonorously, “some years ago I was given the honor of Lady Morgana’s custody. Since that time she has been my ward and has become like a daughter to me.” He turns a beaming smile on Morgana, who returns it. “It turns out that affection is not misplaced. Though this has been kept a secret from all of us these many years, a truth has been revealed and we’ve since learned the truth that Morgana is, in fact, my daughter.”

Ah, there’s the twist, Merlin notes with a tight smile as the crowd around him reacts with noises of surprise and wonder. This carefully disseminated truth – implying Uther was amongst the unknowing parties - allows him to save face and to need no excuses for never having acknowledged her before. It’s a clever move.

Fortunately he knows that Morgana and Arthur are okay with that small deception. Morgana doesn’t want to create a stir, and Arthur is oddly silent about it all. Arthur did insist, Merlin knows because he was privy to several long and loud arguments over the matter, that Morgana be named second in line to the throne. Uther objected at first, citing the need to avoid upheaval in the Kingdom and once again the supposition that it would be riskier if a second heir were named, but Arthur went so far as to threaten to abdicate if Uther didn’t agree. There were a few tense days where everyone walked on eggshells around Pendragon father and son.

Eventually, though, Uther agreed and this is the result.

“It is therefore my greatest honor and joy to name her a Princess of Camelot. She stands second in line to the throne. Should my son bear no sons of his own, upon his death Morgana Pendragon will be named heir.” He takes Morgana's hand, inviting her to step down to the base of the dais to turn and face him.

Geoffrey steps forward holding out a pillow that bears a small but intricate gold crown. Uther takes the crown and then offers Morgana the pillow which she places under her knee as she kneels.

“Do you solemnly swear to govern the people of this kingdom and its dominions according to the statutes, customs and laws laid down by your forebears?”

Morgana nods. “I do, Sire.”

“Do you promise to exercise mercy and justice in your deeds and judgments?” Uther asks.

“I do, Sire.”

He looks down at her, smiling a very genuine smile. “And do you swear allegiance to Camelot, now and for as long as you shall live?”

Morgana nods solemnly. Her voice only quavers slightly as she recites, “I, Morgana Pendragon, do pledge life and limb to your service and to the protection of the kingdom and its peoples.”

“Now being of age and second in line to the heir apparent, from henceforth, you shall be a Princess of Camelot.” He places the delicate crown upon her head and then holds out a hand, helping her to her feet.

She stands and faces the crowd and they begin to cheer wildly. Arthur steps forward and, forgoing propriety, drags her in a hug. Uther puts his hands on both his children’s shoulders and looks as proud as Merlin has ever seen him.

It’s a moment Merlin never thought he’d see and he can’t help feeling just the slightest bit of pride that he helped to make it happen. So many of the things he’s working towards changing are coming to fruition. He knows there are still challenges ahead – the biggest of all being Morgause – but he’s gone beyond hopeful now and is starting to finally feel confident that he’s changing Arthur’s destiny for the better.

Another of those challenges rears its ugly head a few weeks later when the announcement comes that Camelot will be hosting peace talks for the Five Kingdoms.

Merlin once told Morgana that it took powerful magic to control a man or change his mind. He’s done it, on a lesser scale, to Arthur when he needed him complacent and cooperative when he had to hustle him out of Camelot. But to change a man’s mind so completely that his thoughts are no longer his own is something Merlin’s always associated with the darker magic of the Old Religion. He’s never considered anything so heinous before.

But now? He’s more than prepared to do whatever it takes to prevent Arthur being put under a love spell again. This time there will be no Guinevere to break him out of it. Her heart has wholly been given to Lancelot and he doesn’t know if Arthur truly loves her any more. He’s still friendly to her and willing to share a laugh, and he’s even stopped scowling behind Lancelot’s back (though every now and then he does work just a little bit hard to trip Lancelot up on the practice field, Merlin’s noticed) but Merlin has no idea if he’s still in love with her.

The arrival of the leaders Five Kingdoms is a momentous occasion for Camelot and it seems every person in the castle is scrambling to make things ready. Merlin makes his own preparations. He won’t resort to it unless he absolutely has to, but he’s got a spell prepared that will give him control of the mind of a person. It’s darker magic than he’s ever toyed with, and there’s no small risk to himself if the spell goes wrong.

He also doesn’t want to spoil the peace talks, but he’ll risk anything to keep Arthur’s heart his own.

The first night after the arrival of all the guests Merlin hides himself out in Arthur’s room and is there, waiting when Trickler arrives to place Arthur under the spell and hide the lock of hair beneath Arthur’s pillow. He watches the man sneak into the room and waits until he draws out a vial. Then he simply steps out from behind the shadow of the cupboard.

“Hold!” He shouts, “Reveal yourself!”

Trickler scrambles back and the vial is tossed loose from his flailing hands and on the bed Arthur stirs.

“Arthur,” Merlin calls out in warning. “Wake up.”

Arthur, who is practically subliminally trained to wake at Merlin’s voice at this point, rolls over and opens his eyes. He spots Trickler and sits up with a start, arm reaching immediately for his sword.

“Who are you?” He demands. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” Trickler wrings his hands together and cringes back to the corner of the room. “Oh, I’m so sorry, My Lord. It appears I have the wrong room.”

“Arthur,” Merlin carries a candle over and kneels down next to the spilled potion, careful to keep his eye on Trickler. He knows the man is a sorcerer and would not be above using magic to get out of this situation. “He’s lying. He had this vial in his hands when he neared your bed. I fear he was going to poison you.”

“Guards!” Arthur shouts, shifting off the bed and leveling the sword at Trickler’s chest. “Tell me,” Arthur asks with menace, “what was in that vial?”

“Nothing, My Lord.” He simpers. “Your servant knows not of what he speaks. I merely came into the wrong room. The vial contains a sleeping tonic for my master, nothing more.”

A trio of Camelot guards rush the room, weapons drawn.

“You lie!” Merlin accuses. “You were sneaking up to his bed with it.” He looks to Arthur. “He’s lying, Arthur.”

Arthur looks between them and then nods. “Guards, take this man to the dungeons. We’ll see what your master and my father have to say about this in the morning.”

After Trickler is escorted out, Merlin kneels down again next to the spilled vial. He carefully collects the largest part of the vial that still holds some liquid. “I’ll take this to Gaius,” he tells Arthur. “To see if he can figure out what Trickler was planning.”

Arthur nods. “Good idea.” Before Merlin is out the door, Arthur’s stops him with a word. “Merlin.”

“Yes, Sire?”

He quirks an odd sort of smile. “Make sure you’ve got a good explanation for being in my room in the middle of the night.”

Before Merlin can stammer out a reply Arthur waves for him to shut the door. “Good night, Merlin.”

The next morning he’s ordered to report before the King and Arthur. King Alined is there as well and he’s fuming over the imprisonment of his manservant. When the guards drag Trickler in, fighting their hold the whole way, from the fearful looks he’s shooting towards Alined he’s more afraid of facing his master than he is Uther’s judgment.

When Trickler is made to kneel before him Uther turns to his son. “Arthur, please tell us what occurred last night.”

“Yes,” Alined blurts out furiously. “I want to know just what ridiculous accusations you’re leveling against my servant!”

“They’re not ridiculous, King Alined. I have a witness. Your manservant came into my room in the middle of the night, approached my bed and took out a vial of liquid. Who knows what he might have done if Merlin wasn’t there.”

Alined sneers and then fixes Merlin with an ugly, salacious look. “Which begs the question, Arthur. What _was_ your manservant doing in your room in the middle of the night?”

Uther scowls, but allows the question.

“Merlin,” Arthur nods. “Care to fill him in?”

Merlin steps forward. “I was waiting to wake my master for a pre-dawn hunt, My Lord.” He tacks on the honorific rather curtly.

“That’s preposterous.” Alined scoffs. “Whoever heard of something so ridiculous?”

“Are you calling my manservant a liar?” Arthur asks darkly. “Because if you’re suggesting that he’s lying, then you’re directly suggesting I’m lying. And there’s nothing preposterous about it. I had a whole day of scheduled responsibilities today and I wanted to get away from the castle for a short time this morning. I find an early hunt to be a good way to stir the blood and get me prepared for a long day of sitting in, no offense, rather tedious council meeting.” He flashes a disarming smile at the rest of the leaders of the Five Kingdoms seated in the chairs next to Uther. The comment earns him a few chuckles and agreeable nods.

“Very well,” Uther says. “Merlin, tell us what you witnessed.”

“I was seated at the table in Prince Arthur’s room. I had instructions to wake him just after the four a.m. bells. I had all of our gear packed for a hunt, which can be verified if you’ll check the Prince’s room. I left it there after the chaos last night.” In truth, he hurried a couple of packs in this morning before Arthur’s breakfast, but he knows Arthur won’t contradict him.

“I’ll admit I was starting to doze off a bit,” He ducks his head for embellishment, and sees Arthur mock-frown, “but I was woken by the noise of the door opening. I watched Trickler step quietly over to the Prince’s bed and take something out of his jacket. That’s when I called out to him. He startled and dropped the vial. And then I woke Arthur so he could stop Trickler from leaving.”

“You saw him with this vial?” Uther asks.

Merlin nods. “Yes, Sire.”

Alined tries to wave this away. “You can’t expect us to believe the word of a mere servant?”

“Yet you expect us to believe the word of yours?” Uther asks rather archly.

“Trickler is my own personal valet.”

Arthur steps forward and practically growls. “And Merlin is the personal manservant of the Crown Prince of Camelot.”

“Arthur,” Uther admonishes, but lightly. He turns to Gaius then. “Gaius, can you tell us what you discovered about this potion. Was it a poison?”

Gaius steps forward holding up a glass bottle with a thin layer of liquid coating the bottom. “No, My Lord.”

There are surprised noises and gasps from all around the room. Even Arthur looks puzzled. “Then what is it?”

“I believe, Sire, that it is a very special kind of love potion.”

“Love potion?” Uther repeats.

“There, you see,” Alined begins. “It was nothing but a harmless bit of fun. Just a silly love potion. Probably just rainwater and flower petals.”

Gaius clucks his tongue. “Oh, I’m afraid not, Sire. This potion was made with the most powerful magic. If he’d gotten it to Arthur it would have made him fall in love with whoever the intended target was. Arthur would have thought on her and about no one else to the detriment of his duties and his family and all else.”

“Surely you exaggerate?” Alined states, pompously.

“Gaius?” Uther asks, “Is there any way to tell who the intended target of this spell was? Who Arthur was supposed to fall in love with?”

Gaius nods to Merlin, and he holds out the lock of hair that Trickler was going to place under Arthur’s pillow. “When Gaius and I went back to examine the spill, I found this on the floor of Arthur’s room.” That’s also a bit left of the truth, as he actually managed to retrieve it by magic from Trickler’s pocket as the guards dragged him down the hallway.

Olaf stands up and strides forward. “Let me see that.” He swipes the lock of hair from Merlin’s hand and then turns angrily towards Trickler. “This is from my Vivian!”

“Oh come now, Olaf, “Alined says scathingly. “I’m sure there’s no possible way you could recognize a lock of hair that small.”

“We could bring the Lady Vivian here, Sire.” Gaius suggests. “And examine her hair.”

“Preposterous,” Alined retorts. “When would Trickler even have had a chance to get ahold of a lock of your daughter’s hair?”

“During the magic show,” Merlin interjects and is immediately fixed with a black look from Alined.

“Go on,” Uther prompts.

“Trickler did that thing with the butterflies.” He shrugs. “Lady Morgana’s maid, Guinevere and I remarked on it. He touched her hair then, when he drew the butterfly out of it.”

That infuriates Olaf. He has his sword out and almost to Trickler’s throat before anyone can stop him.

“Olaf, hold!” Uther shouts. “I know you want justice. As do I. It was almost my son who was affected by this foul magic. But you cannot kill him.”

Trickler, kneeling with his head lolling back, looks almost as though he’d prefer to be run through by Olaf. Merlin doesn’t blame him. He can’t imagine what kind of punishment Alined would have in store for him for his abject failure.

“I think,” Uther says, once they’ve got Olaf calmed down and seated again, “that we’ve got more than enough evidence to pronounce a verdict of guilt against Trickler.” He turns to Alined then, smiling a serpent’s grin. “Now the question becomes whether or not your man was acting under orders?”

Alined squirms for a moment then shakes his head. “It is as you suggest, King Uther," he agrees smarmily. "My man is guilty of the crime. I am as shocked as you are. I leave him in your hands for punishment.”

Uther nods. “Very well. Guards, take him back to the dungeons. We will determine his ultimate fate at the conclusion of these talks.”

After that business is done, Uther and the other leaders retire to the council chamber to continue developing the treaty. Merlin learns from Arthur that Alined is truculent and occasionally combative but never outright defiant. Even he, however reluctantly, signs the treaty when all is said and done.

A few weeks after the treaty is signed and all of the respective leaders have returned to their Kingdoms, Uther passes sentence on Trickler. He’s left him rotting in the Camelot dungeons the whole time, nervously awaiting his fate, in effort to get him to open up about the true purpose behind his plot against Arthur.

At first Trickler is reluctant to speak and won’t say a bad word against his master. But eventually the assurances that he will be never again be returned to Alined’s side are enough to get his tongue wagging. When the truth is known Uther orders him imprisoned for the remainder of his days in a prison keep belonging to one of Camelot’s distant vassals. He also sends a strongly worded message to Alined that any further acts against Camelot will violate the treaty and the other four Kingdom’s would be forced to go to war against him.

Merlin is in Arthur’s room, scrubbing at the stain left behind on the floor by the spilled love potion - for some reason it stained the worn stone a darkish pink – when Arthur comes in and tells him of his father’s judgment and his letter to Alined.

“Honestly,” Merlin says, “I think that what your father did was probably a kindness. Trickler seemed more afraid of Alined than he did any punishment your father could mete out.”

Arthur frowns. “I’m afraid your right, Merlin. There was certainly something quite unsavory going on there.” He clears his throat. “Merlin,” Arthur says, speaking Merlin’s name somewhat oddly. Well, more oddly than usual. “Is everything alright with you lately?”

Merlin frowns and stops scrubbing, dropping the cloth into the bucket. What does Arthur mean? He knows he’s been a bit too clingy these past few weeks, spending time with Arthur whenever the opportunity presents itself, suggesting hunts when the weather is fair, offering to help out on the practice field when he would normally beg off, but he doesn’t think he’s been too different otherwise. Has Arthur noticed something?

“Yeah, of course,” He says, too quickly. “Why do you ask?”

Arthur hesitates. “It’s just that you’ve been…” he looks at a loss for words. “Unusually… competent lately.” Arthur frowns, as if he realizes just how ridiculous that sounds. “I mean, my room is always clean, my clothes always neatly put away. I could eat off of my armor, not that I’d want to, and even my stables are quite pristine. If you weren’t still clumsy and rude and far too much of a dollop head for your own good, I’d swear I had an entirely different servant working for me.”

It’s such an absurd comment, but Merlin doesn’t feel like laughing. In fact, he feels a ball of emotion clog his throat. He tries to clear it, doesn’t fully succeed and manages to get out a reedy, hoarse, “Everything’s fine, Sire. I just…” he tries to think of something suitable to say that’s not too close to the truth. “I just don’t want to disappoint you.” Damn. Too honest. Far, far too honest.

Because Merlin knows what he’s been doing. He wants to make Arthur happy. He never wants to be the cause of any discontent in Arthur’s life. He hasn’t wanted to change the nature of their relationship, but recent events have got him thinking. He hasn’t been able to clear his mind of the question of just _who_ might have been able to break Arthur out of the love spell, if Trickler had gotten away with it. He’s tried so damn hard to keep his personal thoughts to himself. To hide his longing and his physical responses to nearly every move that Arthur makes. To not project any of what he’s been feeling about Arthur, because he _is_ happy with the way things are between them.

But he knows that just that knowledge has changed the nature of their relationship. He didn’t mean for that to happen, but there’s less sarcasm between them now, and Arthur hardly ever yells at him. He still teases and banters, but it’s more playful now than anything. He’s been talking to Merlin more, not always asking for Merlin’s opinions on matters of state or tasks the King sets for him, but just speaking to Merlin as if he actually enjoys having someone who will just listen.

It occurs to Merlin then, just how much closer their current friendship is to the one that he – his older self – shared with King Arthur near the end. He could get away with saying things to _that_ Arthur – admonishing him for reckless decisions, chastising him for being too harsh, mocking him for a belt that was too tight – that no one else could.

Merlin’s been trying to get them back to that. To where he is the one true constant in Arthur’s life (someone who Arthur will respond to with not only forgiveness after years of necessary deceit, but a request to never change). He’s already responsible for taking Gwen away from Arthur and depriving him of that source of happiness; he doesn’t ever want to take anything else away from Arthur that might bring him joy. Including himself.

He’s not sure how to feel about that. It makes him question every decision he’s made up to this point, since he woke up in his younger body. Has every choice he’s made been about making himself just as important to Arthur as Arthur is to him, as much as it’s been about saving Arthur’s life?

Arthur looks somewhat nonplussed at his response. He steps closer to Merlin, rather than further away which Merlin might have expected and encourages Merlin to his feet by pulling up on his arm. When Merlin stands, Arthur's hand doesn't fall away from his arm. His voice is soft, and his eyes are narrowed, “Have I done… have I given you reason to think I was disappointed?”

He’s genuinely worried. Merlin swallows against the knot that’s still lodged somewhere just above his frantically beating heart.

Apparently Merlin takes too long in answering, because Arthur continues on (despite the fact that it looks like it physically pains him to speak). “I mean, I know I talk about sacking you all the time, and sometimes I might hit you. In fun,” he hurries to add. “It’s all in fun, you know.” Arthur sighs and throws his head back for a long moment. When he brings it back down again his face is tight and twisted with some kind of unreadable emotions. “I’m probably never going to say this again, but you don’t disappoint me, Merlin. In fact, I couldn’t ask for a better manservant.” He looks to the side, over Merlin’s shoulder, before adding, “Or friend.”

“Arthur, I…” except Merlin doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He’s got nothing. He knows what he should do here. It’s the perfect time to crack a joke or make a smart assed remark. That’s how this thing between them works whenever emotions get too close to the surface, or any hint of a deeper connection between them could be fathomed.

Merlin can’t bring himself to do it. He can’t even summon up any words that would fit. Other words want to come out. Words he knows he shouldn’t say. Words that would change things even further. “Arthur, I—“

There’s a sharp rap at the door and it swings open immediately after. Leon steps in, the start of a sound already issuing from his mouth, which cuts off with a noticeable pause when he spots Merlin and Arthur.

Merlin knows how it could look. They’re standing very close together, bodies angled inward. Arthur’s hand is on Merlin’s arm.

Arthur either isn’t aware of that, or just doesn’t care and he merely turns a half step towards the door. “What is it, Leon?”

Leon blinks and then seems to remember himself. “Sire, you’re needed in the throne room. There’s a Druid emissary here to see your father.”

“A Druid emissary?” Arthur repeats. “That’s odd.”

Leon nods.

“C’mon,” Arthur gives a curt jerk of his chin that commands Merlin to follow. Not that Merlin has any qualms about doing so. He’s burning with curiosity over what a Druid would be doing in Camelot, willingly seeking out the King.

The three hurry down the corridors and when they reach the throne room Arthur strides down the center of the room to join his father while Leon joins the row of Knights assembled on either side of the aisle and Merlin finds Gaius and steps into place beside him.

“My son, Arthur.” Uther says with a magnanimous wave of his hand.

Merlin realizes that the Druid is Iseldir. “Prince Arthur,” he bows his head. “I thank you for seeing me, your Highness. I know that in the past there has been enmity between our peoples.”

“If you know this,” Uther says, his tone bordering on haughty, “then you must know our feelings regarding the _skills_ ,” he says the word with distaste, “of your people have not changed.”

“Perhaps, but recently you showed clemency to one of our own. The girl, Freya. You treated her fairly and your own physician cured her of a curse that my people thought could not be lifted.”

Iseldir does not seek Merlin out in the crowd, but Merlin knows those words are meant for him. In his head Iseldir’s voice whispers, “ _Thank you, Emrys_.”

“She was given a fair trial.” Uther agrees. “Still you risk much by coming here.”

Iseldir inclines his head. “I know this. And if my life is sacrifice for it, then that has been deemed a fair exchange for the life of the girl.”

“Then why risk it at all?”

“To warn you, your Highness, that an army is massing along the borders of Essetir.”

The flat line of Uther’s mouth bends just slightly into a smirk. “We’re well aware of Cenred’s activities, Druid.”

“But do you know that he has a Sorceress with him?  A Priestess of the Old Religion who is very powerful.”

Uther seethes. “How do you know this?”

“Her dark magic sullies the very ground.” Iseldir scowls in disgust. “My people can feel it through the earth and in the voices of the trees. She twists magic to her own dark purpose and we fear that Camelot is her goal.”

Uther leans forward in his throne, head canted to the side. He reminds Merlin of Kilgharrah then, the times that he would toy with Merlin. It’s not a very favorable comparison. “Why do you tell me this, Druid? Would it not benefit your people if Camelot were destroyed by magic?” He looks genuinely puzzled.

“No,” Iseldir shakes his head. “We do not wish that. We wish for a time of peace when all are welcome into this land. But that time should not come on the heels of destruction.” He spreads his hands beatifically. “You have shown great wisdom and conscience, King Uther. We are only hopeful that these actions will help to further that clemency.”

Merlin tries not to wince. Uther isn’t exactly one who takes pride in being thought of as a compassionate king.

Still, Uther gives a slightly favorable nod. “Well then. What can you tell us of this Priestess?”

“Her name is Morgause.”

There is a collective gasp from the audience. Uther holds up a hand and commands, “Silence!” He turns to Arthur then. “So it would seem we were right in believing she had ulterior motives when she challenged you.”

Arthur nods. “It would appear so, Sire.”

Merlin seeks out Morgana (positioned to Uther’s left, while Arthur stands at his right hand) and finds her already staring at him in concern. They share a look of commiseration. He’s is more thankful than ever that he kept Morgana away from her.

Uther turns his attention back to Iseldir. “Do you know what she has planned? What kind of magical attack we can expect.”

“I can tell you that we received word from our northern brethren just this morning of smoke rising over Idirsholas. Surely you know of the prophecy.”

Gaius speaks up. “It is said that when the Fires of Idirsholas burn, the Knight of Medhir will ride again. Sire,” he cautions, “if this Morgause has truly awakened the Knights, I shudder to think what that means for Camelot.”

Merlin can see that Uther tries hard not to react to that news. “Did any of your people go inside? Do you know for certain it wasn’t just bandits taking shelter?”

Iseldir shakes his head, frowning. “None of my people would dare set foot over that threshold. We cannot say for absolute certain that this Morgause has awakened the Knights. It is as I said, just the sense of darkness in the very land. And if it is so, that the Knights walk once more, what this means for Morgause’s plans is unknown to us.”

“Can you tell us anything else about what we might expect from Morgause’s magic?”

Again Iseldir indicates the negative. “I am sorry, but I cannot. All that we can tell is that it is dark magic and it is powerful.”

“ _Emrys_ ,” the voice in Merlin’s head makes him start. “ _Our visions of the future are still clouded. Even our most gifted in prophecy, the Vates, find the waters of fate a struggle to navigate. But this much is clear to them: you must defeat Morgause. There is a darkness that surrounds her and its tendrils are far reaching. Should she survive, that darkness will consume all_.”

“ _Thank you, Iseldir_.” Merlin sends back. The only sign that he’s heard is the slight nod that could be nothing more than the druid shifting positions.

Uther scratches thoughtfully at his chin. “What of details on Cenred’s troops? Do your people have any information that could be useful there?”

Merlin is impressed that Iseldir doesn’t call him out on the fact that not five minutes earlier he’d said they knew everything they needed to about Cenred’s army. Instead the Druid nods. “Yes, your Highness. Lord Cenred seeks to confuse your scouts. He has the majority of his men camped just north of the Ridge of Essetir due east of Camelot, but there are smaller pockets of his men placed strategically throughout the forest to the north.”

“Could you ascertain if they appear to be readying for a march?”

Iseldir spreads his hands. “Not for certain, but it does seem so. More appear to be flocking to Cenred’s banners and there are rumors that he waits only on the word of Morgause.”

“Would you be willing to discuss this further with our war council?”

Iseldir inclines his head gravely. “Of course.”

Uther waves Sir Leon over. “Leon, please escort,” he stumbles over the Druid’s name.

“Iseldir, my Lord,” Leon supplies.

“Right. Escort Iseldir to the council chamber and see what additional information we can find out about Cenred’s movements. I will join you there momentarily.”

After Leon and Iseldir leave, Uther once again turns to Arthur. “I want you to take a small group of men and head north to Idirsholas and see if this rumor is true. And then scout the ridge and the forest. I want to confirm what this Druid says is true about Cenred’s troops as well. In the meantime, we need to begin preparing Camelot for siege.”

Arthur looks like he might protest. Merlin hopes he might. It’s a waste of Arthur’s time to go all the way to Idirsholas and to re-scout the forest when Iseldir likely has all the information they need. But Uther won’t trust that. And Arthur apparently realizes this because he just nods. “Yes sire. We’ll leave within the hour.”

Merlin is sent to pack their gear while Arthur gathers the Knights who will be accompanying them. He meets Arthur in front of the steps with their horses saddled and packed. To his surprise, only two men join them: Lancelot and Percival. He’s surprised Arthur’s leaving with so few of his Knights, but relieved also, because he has an idea he’d like to discuss with Arthur.

They ride through the gates and Arthur immediately picks up the road to the north. Merlin knows they’re following up on Uther’s request to investigate Idirsholas first, as they can monitor enemy patrols on the return ride south. Merlin kicks his mount to a trot, passing by Lancelot and Percival, so he can ride close enough to Arthur for easy conversation (that won’t get lost to the wind or beneath the clomping and clashing of hooves on stone and dirt).

“Arthur, I was wondering something.”

“Merlin, we’re barely ten minutes out of the castle. Please tell me you don’t have to stop already?”

Merlin taps a heel to his horses flank and urges it to sidles sideways into Arthur’s bay gelding. Arthur grunts out a pained noise when the shoulder of Merlin’s mount crashes into his leg. “Watch your horse, Merlin.” He complains. “It’s as clumsy as you are.”

“Sorry,” Merlin says innocently. “But what I was going to say was that I wondered if you thought it made sense to go all the way to the Citadel of Idirsholas?”

“Of course, Merlin. You heard my father’s orders.”

“Well, it just seems that would be a waste of time. We’ve already got the word of the Druid that the fires were burning. And if Morgause is as dangerous as they say she is, then it’s a safe assumption she’s used her dark magic to restore the Knights.”

Arthur draws back on his reins with one hand, bringing his horse to a halt, and holds up the other as a signal to his Knights to hold. He turns in the saddle to eye Merlin with curiosity. “And you’ve got somewhere better in mind?” This is why he’s glad it’s just Percival and Lancelot. In front of anyone else, Arthur might not deign listen to Merlin’s suggestion.

“Yes. It’s just that when I was packing up I asked Gaius about these Knights of Medhir. He said that they leave death and destruction in their wake. They are not alive and cannot be killed by mortal men.”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur drawls, “unless you suddenly know a way to destroy something that cannot be killed, I’m going to keep going.”

“Actually, I do.” Merlin rejoins, just as smarmy as Arthur. “My father told me stories of a sword. He said it was forged in a dragon’s breath. The dragon fire imbued the sword with power to kill even that which was already dead.”

Merlin can see that Arthur wants to reply with something smart, but he’s always been rather gentle with Merlin as far as his father is concerned. “Given that this isn’t just some old legend, which it sounds like to me, I don’t suppose he told you where to find this magical sword?”

Scowling at the high and rather twee way that Arthur says ‘magical’, Merlin nods. “Yes. It’s at the bottom of the lake of Avalon.”

“Okay. Well, ignoring the fact that you just said it’s at the bottom of a lake, that’s still entirely the opposite direction, Merlin. We’d never reach Idirsholas by nightfall.”

“Sire,” Lancelot interrupts. He and Percival have ridden closer to listen in on the conversation. “Might I suggest that we split up? Percival and I could ride north to this citadel and investigate these rumors. If you and Merlin go get this sword, we could meet back up just outside the Darkling Woods tomorrow to scout the borders for Cenred’s troops.”

Merlin smiles gratefully at his friend. It’s a good idea that will ensure Uther’s orders are followed, but also that they have a way to defeat the Knights. Whether or not Arthur will see it that way or not is another matter. He turns back to Arthur, “My father is a Dragonlord, Arthur. It makes sense that he’d know about the power a dragon’s fire could imbue. I believe him when he says that this sword exists.”

Arthur pulls off a glove with his teeth and scrubs at his face and through his hair with the bared hand. He waits until he’s redonned the glove to say, “You really think this sword will be necessary to defeat the Knights of Medhir?”

Merlin nods emphatically. “Gaius said that the Knights only fell when the Sorceress controlling them was slain. We could rely on trying to kill Morgause to stop them, but if she has these Knights protecting her, I think that might prove difficult.”

“You could be right,” Arthur reluctantly agrees. He looks back and forth between Merlin and Lancelot then blows out a breath. “Alright. Lancelot, Percival, continue on to the citadel of Idirsholas. If you do encounter anyone, don’t engage them; just get back to our meeting point.”

“Yes, Sire.” Lancelot nods.

“Understood.” Percival adds.

They bid Arthur and Merlin farewell and continue down the road to the north.

Arthur watches them go for a few moments and then turns to Merlin again. “You’d better be right about this. I don’t like the idea of putting my Knights in danger while I go gallivanting off after some old wives tale.”

“Trust me, Arthur.” Merlin grins.

Grumbling under his breath, Arthur wheels his horse toward the west and kicks him into a trot. Merlin follows.

The Lake of Avalon isn’t too far from Camelot, especially on horseback. Though they left the city by the north gate and have to navigate the woods in their press west, they reach the lake’s shore by late early afternoon.

Arthur dismounts and starts scouting a place to tie his horse, but Merlin just sits in the saddle, staring out over the still waters of Avalon.

He’d gone back there, of course, in his old life in the years after he’d watched the boat containing Arthur’s body float away. Sometimes he’d spend days just sitting at the water’s edge, staring into the mists and waiting for some kind of sign. Looking upon it now Merlin still feels the same sense of loss and sorrow.

He tries to shake it off, climbing from the saddle and leading his mount to where Arthur is tying off his reins of his. “Perhaps we should leave your armor behind?” he suggests, remembering all too well how heavy Arthur was when he hauled him out of the lake after the fae Sophia tried to drown him.

Arthur frowns, but doesn’t argue, so Merlin helps him get the plate and heavy chain surcoat off. He removes the padded gambeson as well and then starts to tug at the hem of his tunic. “Do you think I’ll need to go in the water? I’d rather not end up riding in soaking wet clothes.”

“No,” Merlin hurries to stop Arthur taking off his shirt. He really can’t deal with Arthur bare-chested right now. “Uh, I mean, no I don’t think you’ll need to go in the water. Just better to be safe than sorry.”

Arthur blinks. “So, how are we to go about finding this sword at the bottom of the lake?”

Merlin really hasn’t given that much thought. When he sought the sword from the Avalon the first time Freya had – somehow - been there to help him. “Well,” he says, trying to sound as sure as he can, “there’s a boat over there. Let’s take that out on to the water and see what happens.” He starts over to the small skiff that’s mired in the weed and rushes.

“See what happens?” Arthur echoes. “Merlin, that doesn’t sound very promising.” He follows after Merlin though and helps him drag the boat out of the tangle of reeds and then climbs in readily enough. “If you think I’m paddling, Merlin…”

Stepping in carefully (ignoring a strong temptation to just rock the whole thing and upend Arthur into the water), Merlin gets his balance, picks up the oar and begins to row them to the middle of the lake.

Despite paddling around for several minutes, nothing happens. Blowing out a frustrated (and tired) breath, Merlin lets them drift a moment.

“Uh, Merlin. I’m not seeing anything happening here. And I’m not seeing any mythical sword. Are you?”

Merlin leans over the edge, staring down into the water. When still, the lake is clear as glass and he can see to the bottom. “I was given to understand that the sword would reveal itself.” He explains.

“Oh that’s just great, Merlin. We’re waiting on a magical sword to magically reveal itself to us. Fantastic.” He slumps back in to the prow.

“Be still,” Merlin snaps, and then ignores Arthur’s indignant huff. There’s something beneath them. Perhaps a glint? Or maybe just the sun catching on rock. He can’t quite make it out through the ripples that Arthur set in motion, so he waits again for the expanding rings to spread and smooth out once again.

The boat drifts just a bit more and its' shadow moves with it, revealing the unmistakable gleam of silver.

“There it is!” Merlin exults.

“Where?” Arthur looks over the side. He follows where Merlin’s pointing and nods. “That bit shining down there? You sure that’s a sword? Could be anything.”

“I’m sure.”

“I thought you said we wouldn’t have to go into the water?” Arthur groans.

Merlin shrugs. “Sorry, I thought we wouldn’t.”

To his surprise Arthur starts pulling off his boots.

“What are you doing?”

Arthur stops a moment to fix Merlin with an incredulous look. “I’m getting ready to go into the lake to get the sword. What does it look like I’m doing?” He tugs off the second boot. “Wet boots take ages to dry.” His belt follows and then he shucks off his shirt in one smooth, easy motion.

Merlin’s mouth goes dry. Sunlight is a friend to Arthur. It shines on his golden hair and throws highlights and shadows over the planes and slopes of his well-muscled torso. Caught up in staring, it takes Merlin a moment to realize Arthur is speaking. “You’ll have to hold the boat steady, Merlin. And make sure you don’t drift too far after I’ve gone in.” He stands on shaky legs and – oh, god – removes his trousers.

Merlin clutches hard to both sides of the boat and squeezes his eyes shut.

“What’s the matter, Merlin?” Even behind his eyelids, Merlin can still see the firm, pale lines of Arthur’s thighs. “Feeling a little queasy on the water?” And of course, Arthur deliberately rocks the boat.

“Uh, yes. So could you please stop that and just get in the water.” He must say it a little more sharply than intended because Arthur huffs and grumbles something unintelligible under his breath. Merlin risks peaking when the boat moves further (mostly because he doesn’t want to end up tipping) and is treated to the sight of Arthur sitting on the middle seat with his legs over the side.

He looks over at Merlin. “Remember; don’t let the boat drift too far.”

“Right,” Merlin manages to croak out.

Arthur lifts himself on strong arms and slowly levers himself into the water. He dips under immediately and then comes up with a gasp, tossing his head back and spraying water in an arc that refracts in rainbow hues. “Damn, that’s cold.” He looks, Merlin decides, like some fae creature himself. Even more beautiful with rivulets of water streaming down his skin and that loving sunlight almost making him glow.

A hand comes out of the water to point at Merlin. “Keep any eye on me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Merlin agrees before he even realizes what he’s agreeing to.

He’s perhaps a bit too obvious in his distraction because the next thing he knows, he’s being splashed. “Wake up, Merlin.”

Sputtering and wiping his face (Arthur has good aim and managed to keep the water mostly over Merlin’s head), Merlin nods. “I’m awake. Maybe you should get swimming?”

Arthur has the gall to laugh at him and then he dives under the water. It’s difficult for Merlin to follow Arthur’s progress through the water, but he tries. He’s a pale shape beneath the blue that moves further and further down while Merlin watches. And then he’s coming back up, fast, and surfacing with a sputter and a gasp for breath.

“Did you get it?” Merlin asks.

“Does it…” Arthur pants, “look like … I’ve got a sword, Merlin?”

For some strange reason the mischievous part of Merlin’s brain is drawn to remember his conversation with Lancelot and Percival about the first time they met. He doesn’t know what else to blame when he blurts, “Well, it is cold water, Arthur.”

Arthur’s mouth snaps shut and stares at Merlin with eyes that get narrower and narrower while he treads water. Finally he shakes his head, but Merlin can see a smile fighting its way past the firm press of his lips. “That’s just juvenile, Merlin.” He pushes a hand through the water, sending another arching splash in Merlin’s direction. “I’m going back under.” He says and then mutters something that sounds like, “I’ll show you what my sword can do in cold water,” before diving back under.

Merlin is _sure_ he misheard.

Thanks to Arthur’s splashing and Merlin’s subsequent flailing, the boat has started to drift, so Merlin uses the oar to try to redirect it. He thinks he gets back to the right spot, but when he looks down into the wavering water, there’s no sign of Arthur.

He waits. Long seconds pass by. “Arthur?” He calls out looking around the boat at the surface, worried that he moved the boat too far away. There’s no sign.

It’s been too long. Far, far too long.

“Arthur!” Merlin scrabbles with the oar, trying to pull it back into the boat so that he can plunge in himself and find Arthur.

The point of a sword emerges from the water just inches from where Merlin has a foot already over the edge. He yanks it back in as the rest of the sword, and finally Arthur, emerge from the water. “Take this,” Arthur manages to gasp out, practically throwing the sword at Merlin.

He gets a grip on the hilt just as Arthur lets it go and he lays the sword carefully in the boat. There’s no mistaking it’s the right sword (not that he suspected there were many swords at the bottom of the Lake of Avalon). He then leans back over the edge to check on Arthur. “Are you alright? You were down there a long time.”

Arthur is treading water and panting heavily. He waves away Merlin’s concern. “I’m fine.” He says once he’s got his breath back. “Sword was just wedged in there. Took a bit to work it out.” He paddles to the boat. “C’mon. Give me a hand up.”

Bracing himself so he doesn’t tip the boat too far, Merlin reaches a hand over the edge. He mostly lets Arthur pull himself back onboard, and for a moment they start to tip dangerously, but Merlin corrects by leaning back and tugging as hard as he can on Arthur’s arm. They end with Arthur sprawled in a dripping heap over Merlin’s legs.

Merlin is reminded, yet again, just how nearly naked Arthur is. He’s quite grateful that the water soaking through his trousers and socks is cold.

Arthur does another hair flip and the spray of it catches Merlin full across the chest. Arthur looks up from where he’s got an arm on either side of Merlin’s knees and laughs.

“Oh yes,” Merlin mutters irritably (though he’s far from irritated), “thanks for that. I saved your things from getting wet, and now I’m the one who’ll be stuck in damp clothes tonight.”

“Should’ve gotten undressed as well then.” Arthur winks.

Merlin gapes.

He feels gooseflesh spring all over his arms for an entirely different reason that the cold water.

Arthur stares at him a moment longer, something wild and strange in his eyes, before he pushes himself up and away and then settles back on one of the seats. “So,” he says, apparently oblivious to Merlin’s current perplexion. “This is a magic sword?”

“Uh, well it was forged in a dragon’s breath.” Merlin manages clumsily, his tongue thick.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but it’s belied by the grin. “So it’s a magic sword.”

Merlin can’t help but grin in return and nod. “Yeah. It’s a magic sword.”

“Hmm, it looks decent enough.” He picks it up and studies it in the light. “What are these markings?”

Ignoring that for the time being, Merlin has to ask, “Don’t you want to get dressed?”

Arthur lowers the sword so the point is aimed at Merlin. “I’m drying off. I don’t want to put dry clothes on over wet skin.” He uses his other hand to wipe away a trickle that wends down his forehead. “Wish we’d thought to bring a drying cloth though.”

“Oh, here.” Merlin unties his neck scarf and hands it over. “Use this.” He points vaguely upward. “For your hair, at least.”

Arthur lays the sword back down and takes the blue cloth with a chuckle. “Morgana was right. These things come in handy.” He mops at his face and then rubs it over his hair vigorously.

“What was that?” Merlin asks, because he’s not quite sure he follows Arthur’s meaning.

“Your neckerchief Merlin.” He looks down, ostensibly using the cloth to dry his legs, but Merlin knows when Arthur is avoiding his eyes. “I spoke with her about everything that happened with my…,” he shakes his head and gives a quick, dry laugh. “Our father. She told me about the night you found her, how you gave her your scarf to dry her eyes.” He lifts his hand and eyes suddenly, holding the scarf up and fixing Merlin with an odd sort of grin. “Though, I’m no damsel in need of rescuing, are we clear on that?”

No, Merlin thinks, not at all; because he’s incredibly confused. But he says, “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Arthur replies, like that’s the end of it. And apparently it is. He dries as best as he can, hands the damp scarf back to Merlin and picks up the sword again. “Any idea what these markings mean?”

Merlin looks where Arthur points them out, but he already knows. “This side says ‘Take me up’.” He rolls his hand and Arthur dutifully flips the blade. “And this side reads ‘Cast me away’.”

Arthur frowns. “What do you suppose that means?”

“According to my father the sword is special and should only be used in the most special of circumstances. He said that dragons were reluctant to use their fire to enchant weapons in this manner because people misused them or exploited their power. The sword is to be taken up at need,” he gestures to the engraved ancient lettering, “and then cast away, or put aside when that need is fulfilled.”

To Merlin’s surprise Arthur doesn’t dismiss that out of hand, but nods thoughtfully. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He jerks his chin. “C’mon, let’s get back to land. If we hurry we can reach the edge of the Darkling Woods before nightfall and maybe get some hunting in for a hot supper.”

Merlin paddles them back to the water’s edge. When they reach the shore Merlin starts to climb out, planning to drag the boat up the final few inches on to the small stretch of pebbled bank, when Arthur’s hand on his arm stops him. “I’ll get it, Merlin. You’ll only get your boots wet and I’ll have to listen to your complaining all evening.”

He climbs out of the boat and hauls it backwards, feet planted on the bank so he can drag it the few feet it needs to go.

It makes Merlin feel a bit terrible, but he watches the flex of Arthur’s arm, the muscles in his thighs as they clench and the way the flat plane of his belly concaves when he arches forward to get a better grip. He cannot swallow around whatever it is that’s making his throat tight and causing his breath to come short.

He doesn’t understand the strength of his reaction. He spent years at Arthur’s side, has seen him in all manner of states - dressed in full armor for the joust, unclothed in the bath, sick from fever, ignoring a wound that should have put him in a sickbed, laughing around the campfire with his men, pensive and alone in his room brooding over the state of the Kingdom – and yet there’s something very different about this. Something so new.

He can only figure that it’s because the idea of Arthur was something he so diligently chased away, at first out of necessity and then habit. The times that something Arthur said or did, or even just the way he looked in a particular color made Merlin’s pulse race he was quick to quash the thoughts with reminders. At first it was how rude and spoiled and how much of an arrogant prat Arthur was. Then later, it was with his seeming fondness for Morgana. Later still, and from then on, it was with his obvious love for Gwen and his desire to be with her.

Now? There nothing he can remind himself with. His whole purpose for being, for taking the risk to come back to this time, is for Arthur. All his thoughts turn to Arthur, even his innermost. There is nothing about Merlin that is not wholly dedicated to Arthur.

“Merlin!”

Merlin starts.

“Finally,” Arthur says. “I don’t appreciate being ignored, Merlin. Now hand me my clothes, will you?”

He doesn’t know how long Arthur was calling his name, but seeing that the boat is fully pulled onto the shore, it’s been more than a few seconds. “Sorry. I got a bit lost in thought.” He takes the neat pile of Arthur’s clothes and his boots and hands them up to Arthur.

“So I noticed.” Arthur remarks snidely, but there’s a curve to his mouth. Is he amused for some reason?

Merlin clambers out of the boat and actually manages to avoid getting wet – well wetter. He retrieves the sword and holds onto it while Arthur dresses.

Slowly.

Is Arthur really just this poorly skilled at dressing himself? It seems to take him ages to step into his trousers and tug them up. And then he goes and leaves them loose at the waist and ready to fall while he struggles with getting his tunic turned the right-side out and then over his head.

“Do you need help, Sire?” Merlin growls out.

Through the neck hole of his shirt Arthur glares at him. But that damn secretive smirk is hiding on the edges of this expression too. It’s driving Merlin mad! “I think I can manage, but thank you.”

Merlin chews his lip in annoyance and has to tug at the hem of his tunic to cover other inappropriate reactions. The man is just putting clothes on, for goodness sake. Unfortunately his body doesn’t seem to care. He has to do something. “Let me get your armor, Sire.”

He stalks back to the horses and is absolutely certain he hears Arthur chuckling.

“Prat.” Merlin mutters.

Eventually Arthur finishes dressing and Merlin helps his get him armor on. He replaces his standard sword with the dragon-forged blade and hands his old sword to Merlin for safe-keeping. They mount up and Arthur leads them through the woods.

Arthur was right when he surmised they could reach the northern-most edge of the Darkling Woods before nightfall. He scouts a spot that’s near to a stream as well as off the road but close enough to hear passing riders, and helps Merlin make up their camp. As Merlin feeds branches to a slowly growing fire, Arthur takes his crossbow into the woods with the intention of getting them something for their dinner.

The fire is blazing and the sun is just a sliver of orange at the edge of a rapidly purpling sky by the time Arthur returns. He’s carrying a brace of rabbits.

He holds them out to Merlin with a somewhat apologetic expression. “I know of your fondness for rabbits, Merlin. I hope you’re not opposed to cooking them.”

The funniest part about it is that he’s serious. Merlin can’t help it. He laughs. He has to fall back on his bedroll and clutch at his stomach he’s laughing so hard.

“ _Mer_ lin.” Arthur doesn’t sound nearly as amused.

Merlin sits up (which actually takes a moment because the muscles in his abdomen seem to have gone tight). “Sorry. Sorry, Sire. It’s just,” he lifts a hand to indicate the carcasses. “You were concerned about bringing me dead rabbits. It’s rather sweet.”

That earns him a lapful of said rabbits. “Eugh!” Not that he didn’t deserve it.

“Let’s see how amusing you find gutting, skinning and cleaning them in the dark, Merlin.” Arthur stows his crossbow and shoves the sword into the dirt nearby and then drops down to his own bedroll. “C’mon, Merlin. Hop to it. I’m hungry.”

Merlin stands and grabs up the rabbits and is about to carry out Arthur’s instructions when he realizes just what Arthur said. “Did you just…” He shakes his head. No, there’s no way that was a deliberate pun on Arthur’s part.

When he comes back from the stream he’s got the rabbits spitted and ready to go over the fire along with a gutted quail he accidentally scared up from where it was roosting (that he knocked out of the sky with magic when it startled him). Arthur is still sitting where Merlin left him but there’s a pot hanging over the fire. He peers inside as he starts the rabbits roasting. “Did you make stew?”

He tries to keep his tone from sounding too disbelieving (although maybe it’s the arched eyebrows that give him away) but Arthur pokes at the fire with a stick and mutters, “I am capable of cooking, you know.”

Merlin doesn’t bring up the debacle that was the chicken he tried to cook for Gwen. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“Is that a quail?” Arthur asks, noticing the bird as Merlin starts to pluck the feathers and toss them into the fire. “Where did you get that?”

“I am capable of hunting, you know.” Merlin singsongs back.

“No, seriously.” Arthur deadpans.

“Seriously. I flushed it up when I was taking the rabbits to the river. I managed to wing it with a rock when it was flapping about. So, we’ll have roasted quail for breakfast.” He smiles, feeling quite pleased with himself.

“You?” Arthur frowns, “managed to hit a flying bird with a rock?”

Merlin yanks a handful of feathers free and tosses them at Arthur. Well he tries to send them in Arthur’s general direction anyway, but they just flutter to the ground as soon as he lets go of them.

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

Merlin ignores that and finishes his plucking. Eventually the bird gets skewered on its own stick and arranged over the fire.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks, unable to look at him. Though he’s got an excuse, he tells himself as he rolls the rabbits to put a different quarter to the heat to make sure they cook evenly and don’t burn.

“What is it, Merlin?”

“Earlier, on the water, you mentioned that you’d talked to Morgana about your father. I was just, well, wondering how that went?” He’s been curious since Arthur made that comment. They seem to be getting along well, now that they’ve both adjusted to the idea of being siblings, but Merlin knows there’d been some tension in the beginning. Neither one was ever clear with him what that was about, but he’d been the subject of some rather odd looks.

Arthur goes silent so long that Merlin has to look over at him. He’s still sitting cross-legged near the fire. The sun, apparently, is not the only light-giving object that favors Arthur; firelight burnishes his skin and gilds his hair. His right hand is and resting on a knee and Merlin can see that his thumb is rolling rhythmically, up and down, over his mother’s ring that he wears on his index finger. It’s something Arthur does when he’s thinking deeply.  He's got strong, lovely hands, with long, elegant fingers and sometimes when he's like this - pensively staring into the distance and unaware that his fingers are moving of their own accord - Merlin can lose whole minutes in watching the shift of bone and sinew beneath the thin skin.

Merlin shakes his head. He’s got to stop getting caught up studying Arthur and admiring him. He needs to just avoid looking at Arthur all-together it seems.

“Arthur?”

The prompt causes Arthur to shake his head like he’s shaking off water, and his eyes seem to refocus. He looks across the fire at Merlin and grins apologetically. “Sorry, just remembering. Um, things are good. Yeah.” He picks up the stick he’d been using earlier and pokes again at the embers. “Morgana and I have spent much of our lives raised side-by-side, so when we really sat down and talked about it, we realized things aren’t that different after all.”

He hunches his shoulders slightly. “Of course, there are a few instances from my youth that I’ll never want to think on again.”

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks.

Now it’s Arthur who won’t meet Merlin’s eyes. Even in the ruddy glow from the fire Merlin can see that he’s blushing.

“Let’s just say that there may have been a time or two where I saw Morgana in… well, less than I should have. It was in my youth and at the time, those were pleasant memories. Now, not so much?” He mock-shudders.

Merlin snickers.

Arthur glares. “That’s my sister.” The glare becomes something more sinister and Merlin feels a sinking feeling in his gut. “And speaking of that, why didn’t you tell me that she kissed you?”

“Oh, would you look at that, I think the rabbits are burning.” Merlin busies himself with their dinner.

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“Uh, can’t talk now, Arthur. Unless you want to eat charred rabbit for your dinner.”

“Merlin!”

Sitting back on his heels with a sigh, Merlin can only say, “Sorry.”

“What for?” Arthur asks, and he’s got his head cocked to the side and his eyes narrowed.

“Uh, for not telling you?” He’s not sure which answer Arthur is looking for.

“So you’re not sorry you kissed my sister?”

“Hey!” Merlin protests. “She kissed me!”

Arthur glares silently for a long moment, so long that Merlin starts to fidget nervously, and then he suddenly relaxes with a laugh. “For a moment you looked like you were going to fall over in fright. Calm down, Merlin. I’m not going to run you through or any other over-protective nonsense like that. Although,” he levels the stick like it’s a sword pointed at Merlin’s heart, “if anything like that happens again, you’d better believe I will.”

Merlin holds his hands up and waves them around, warding off that line of thought. “Don’t worry, Arthur. Nothing like that will _ever_ happen again. Morgana knows how I feel about her now.”

The stick lowers. “I know. She told me that you stopped it. And she told me why.”

She did? Merlin struggles to keep the panic off his face and out of his voice when he asks, “Oh? What did she say?” He’s nearly winces when he hears how shaky and high he must sound.

Arthur goes back to poking at the fire. “She said that you cared for her, but couldn’t think of her as anything other than a friend. That you knew she deserved better.”

“Oh,” Merlin replies carefully, “well, yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

“It’s not,” Arthur says, oddly intense. Again their eyes meet over the fire and it seems an eternity before either looks away (Merlin’s not sure who did so first, because when he sneaks a sideward glance at Arthur, he’s studying the ground). “I mean, if Morgana weren’t a Princess or the even the King’s ward, and she were just a village lass, I don’t think she could’ve done better.”

Merlin feels his face grow hot. “Uhmm, thanks.”

“I mean, if she liked lazy, stubborn, clumsy, idiot servants, you’d be just her type.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Merlin curls his lip in feigned irritation. Secretly, he’s relieved that Arthur didn’t press further and retreated to their default. He’s starting to think he’s not the only one who doesn’t know how to push past the odd barrier between them.

He changes the subject instead. “Um, by the way, Arthur. I was hoping I could ask something of you?”

“What’s that?”

“The sword,” Merlin nods towards it. “I was hoping you might not mention to your father what it is.”

Arthur frowns. “Why’s that, Merlin?”

Merlin chooses his words carefully. “Well, as I mentioned, the dragons were reluctant to see swords like this in the hands of just anyone. It was only to those who were worthy, and could be trusted that they were gifted.”

Arthur grins, but it’s not a happy expression. “You don’t think I’m worthy?”

“No!” Merlin hurries to correct him. “I mean, yes, I absolutely think you’re worthy. I don’t think you’d have been able to find the sword at all if you weren’t. I feel like… well, like that sword was _meant_ for you, Arthur.”

That earns him a genuine smile. “Thank you, Merlin. What’s your concern then?”

“It’s just the words inscribed on the blade. ‘Take me up’ and ‘Cast me away’. As I explained earlier, I believe this sword is meant to serve a single purpose and then be returned to its' resting place to await another time when it’s needed.” He looks down at his hands. “I don’t think your father would believe something like that.”

“So it’s my father that you don’t think is worthy?” Merlin isn’t looking at his face, but his voice sounds merely curious rather than offended.

“It’s not so much that, Arthur. I just don’t think he’d accept it if you threw a sword like this back in the lake.” His voice gets smaller as he adds, “Plus, you’d have to explain to him how you knew about it and I’m worried…”

“Ah, I see.”

Merlin lifts his chin slightly, looking at up Arthur from beneath the shadow of his brow. “What is it you see?”

“You’re afraid I’ll have to reveal Balinor, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Merlin nods.

“Then you needent worry, Merlin. I’ve already thought of that.”

That causes him to raise his head in surprise. Arthur is wearing a grin that Merlin is familiar with, though that’s not reassuring. It’s the smile that Merlin’s never willing (or able) to deny, and it’s resulted with him in the stocks on more than one occasion.

“Do I want to know?”

The smile just grows wider.

Merlin buries his face in his hands and groans. “This is going to get me in trouble, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t see Arthur shrug, but he can hear it in the ever-so-casual way that he says, “Probably.”

Merlin peeks through his fingers. “What is it?”

“Merlin, I don’t like to lie to my father, you know this. But, sometimes he’s so single-minded about things—“

“Things like magic, you mean.”

Arthur nods. “And I fear it may be to his detriment. If I can help to save Camelot, to save my people, with the use of this sword, and all that it costs me is a bit of untruth to my father, I’d consider that well worth the price.”

“So what will you tell him?”

“That the sword was found in Idirsholas and that’s its magic is tied to whatever spell that animates the Knights of Medhir.”

It’s an intriguing idea, but Merlin’s not quite sure how the explanation will work. “But how would _we_ know that? That it’s tied to the Knights, I mean.”

Arthur waves that away. “Oh, an inscription, perhaps. Or a book?” He shrugs and then gives a nod to Merlin. “That’s where you come in. You’ve spent enough time helping Gaius with these sorts of things, I’m sure you could explain it well enough.”

Merlin shakes his head in denial, even as Arthur starts nodding. “Arthur, no. We’ve had this discussion before, remember? Your father thought I was afflicted with some kind of disorder of the mind.”

“Well, you probably are.”

“Arthur.”

Merlin’s protests and arguments fall on deaf ears. They spend the next little while discussing it (Merlin wouldn’t quite call it arguing) but he eventually gives in. As he always does whenever Arthur makes ridiculous requests of him. By that time, the rabbits are cooked and Merlin quarters one, putting half a haunch in each of their plates. He picks carefully at the rest of the greasy rabbit meat, careful not to burn his fingers, and deposits strips and hunks into the steadily burbling pot of stewing vegetables that Arthur prepared. The picked-clean carcass gets tossed into the wood and the remaining rabbit (as well as the quail) gets wrapped up. They talk quietly over their meal, of simple inconsequential things and then Arthur orders Merlin to get some sleep while he takes first watch.

Merlin is startled awake in the middle of the night by Arthur’s hand clamping down over his mouth. “Shhhh,” Arthur warns. Merlin can just make out Arthur crouched over him in the dark, sword in his other hand. It only takes him a moment to realize this means that there’s someone in the woods, approaching their camp. He gives a quick nod and Arthur slowly releases his hand and edges away noiselessly.

Rolling to his feet as quietly as possible, Merlin reaches for his own gear where he’s got Arthur’s old sword stashed. He slides the blade free and looks to Arthur for instruction.

Arthur signals him back into the woods with a quick, two-fingered motion and then pads to the edge of the small clearing. As he steps back into the shadows of the trees, Merlin can hear the rustling the must’ve caught Arthur’s ear and alerted him.

“Arthur! Merlin!” A voice calls out and Merlin lets his sword arm go lax in relief.

“That’s Percival,” he tells Arthur.

Arthur straightens and calls back, “Over here!”

They’re joined a few moments later by Percival and Lancelot. Even in the dark Merlin can tell they’re both bedraggled and exhausted. “What happened?” Arthur asks, giving Lancelot a hand down from his horse. There’s a swath of cloth, torn from someone’s tunic by the looks of it, wrapped around Lancelot’s bicep.

“You’re injured!” Merlin hurries over to help.

Lancelot waves him away but Merlin notices that he doesn’t lift his left arm very high. “I’ll be fine, Merlin.”

Arthur gives Merlin a quick nod. “See to the horses, and I’ll get the fire going again.”

He rushes to follow Arthur’s instructions, picketing the Knights’ mounts next to his and Arthur’s, removing their tack and giving them a quick rub down and some fodder. He hauls the saddles and gear to the camp to find that Arthur has the fire crackling nicely and their leftover rabbit and stew simmering.

“The Druid was right about Idirsholas.” Percival grunts as he eases himself down onto Merlin’s bedroll.

Lancelot, already resting with his back against a tree stump, he nods in agreement. “And we encountered these Knights of Medhir. They are everything we were warned of.” Merlin kneels down next to him to examine his arm. Though the makeshift bandage is dark with blood when he peels away the stiff cloth the wound itself is closed. It’s likely nothing more than a shallow gash. He pours some water from a skin over it, wipes it clean and re-wraps it with the kerchief that Arthur had returned earlier.

“I thought I told you not to engage?” Arthur chides, though it’s less criticism and much more concern.

Percival gives a low laugh and shakes his head. “Believe me, Arthur, we didn’t mean to. We went inside the citadel to investigate. Found the brazier still warm. Whoever was there, and I’m assuming it was this Morgause, hadn’t been gone more than half a day at most. We were just leaving when these, well, I hesitate to call them men, but they were man-shaped and cloaked in black; they came at us from nowhere.”

“We fought our way out,” Lancelot adds. “But Arthur, you must know that I myself drove my sword through the chest of one of the things, and Percival sliced one with a blow that should have split it from nape to belly, and they did not fall.”

Percival grimaces as he continues. “The shook off every bit of damage we did as if it was nothing. We managed to get away, they don’t seem to move too quickly at least, and rode hard and fast to get here as soon as we could.”

Arthur glances at Merlin worriedly. “So Gaius was right. They cannot be killed by mortal means.”

Merlin nods grimly.

“Did you have luck?” Lancelot asks. “Did you find this sword?”

Arthur lifts the sword and hands it, hilt-first, to Lancelot. “We did. Had to do a bit of swimming to get it.”

“Swimming?” Lancelot wonders as he looks over the sword.

“It was at the bottom of the lake,” Arthur explains.

“So this is a magic sword?” Percival asks after Lancelot is done examining it and passes it over to him. He hefts it, testing the weight and gives it a few practice swishes through the air.

“Apparently.” Arthur says with a shrug. “I guess we’ll see.” He takes the sword and jabs the point into the ground. “C’mon, you two have some food and then we’ll get some rest. It’s back to Camelot at first light.”

“What about Cenred’s patrols?” Merlin asks.

Arthur winks at him. “We’ll keep an eye out for them. I’m sure we’ll spot a few on our ride south. But my father needs to be informed about these Knights of Medhir. The men need to be prepared.” He sighs. “Besides, I’m better use to my people in Camelot.”

Merlin knows from experience that Arthur has made up his mind and even if skipping his duties earns him his father’s wrath, he considers it a fair trade.

The next morning they’re up with the sun and break camp quickly. Merlin shares out the remains of the rabbits and the whole of the roasted quail and they eat in the saddle as they traverse the shadow-dappled woods. When the Dark Forest is behind them and the main road to Camelot is under their hooves they spur their horses along at a fast gallop. They don’t slow until Arthur signals them to take to the woods about two leagues from the city where the close-growing trees force them to a less frantic pace.

Arthur reins in hard just before they reach the tree line. As Merlin and the others halt, he jumps off his mount and indicates the others should follow.

“What is it?” Lancelot asks as they gather together.

“I spotted something through the trees. Merlin,” he instructs, voice a harsh whisper, “stay here with the horses. Percival, Lancelot I want you each to scout about a half mile in either direction,” he points north and then south,” and get to the edge of the woods. Stay low and quiet. I think Cenred’s troops may be on the move. See what you can see, no more than ten minutes and then back here, understood?”

They nod and disappear in different directions within moments.

“What are you going to do?” Merlin asks when they’re gone.

Arthur points with his drawn sword. “I’m going to see what I can over this ridge. Look, stay here and if all of us aren’t back within the hour, I don’t care who’s with you, I want you to head to Camelot.”

“What?” Merlin blurts. He quiets when Arthur shushes him, but he’s no less adamant. “I’m not leaving you, or anyone behind, Arthur.”

“The news about the Knights of Medhir needs to get back to my father. As does any information we can provide about Cenred’s activities.” He flashes a grin. “Don’t worry, Merlin. I have no intention of being left behind. Just promise me you’ll do as I say.”

Merlin starts to protest but Arthur quiets him with a look. “Fine,” he nods. “I’ll do as you ask.”

“Good,” Arthur claps him on the arm, still grinning, and then is off at a crouching run through the woods.

Although he promised to stay put and wait, it doesn’t stop Merlin using his magic to keep an eye on Arthur. None of what’s happening now is following any set path and Merlin is more conscious than ever that just because he prevented one future doesn’t mean that fate can’t throw a blind curve in the path ahead. Until Morgause is dead, he can’t allow himself to take anything for granted.

He tracks Arthur through the woods, following him with his mind’s eye. Arthur is stealthy and he moves through the dense brush with practiced ease. After following his movements for several more minutes, things appear to be safe, so he draws the magic back and shakes his head to clear his vision. Then he settles in to wait.

Percival is the first one back.

“What did you see?” Merlin asks, handing over a waterskin to Percival who clearly ran most of the way.

“Arthur was right. Cenred’s army is marshaling in force. Looks like he’s calling in all of his troops.”

“How soon could they be ready to march?”

Percival shrugs and then tilts his head back, pouring some of the water over his face and down his body. He sputters a moment and scrubs at his face before answering. “Could be as early as tomorrow, or likely the day after judging from the movements.”

A short time later Lancelot returns, his report is alarmingly similar to Percival’s. “They will bring war to Camelot in a matter of days.”

“No sign of Arthur?” Lancelot asks a short time later.

Merlin shakes his head. He knows that at least an hour has gone by and Arthur still isn’t back so he’s supposed to leave with the Knights. He doesn’t.

Once again grateful that Arthur chose two men for this mission that he can trust, Merlin tells them. “Arthur ordered me back to Camelot along with whoever made it back. He wants word taken to the King immediately.”

Lancelot nods with knowing smile. “And of course you’re going to follow Arthur’s orders.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Merlin agrees. “It’s too bad that I lost track of time.” He blinks up at the sky. “I blame the trees and the clouds. Makes it hard to follow the suns’ passage.” He lowers his head, grinning. “I’m going to seek him out with magic. You and Percival be ready if we need to rescue him.”

He looks ahead into the woods, letting his vision follow the circuitous path Arthur took. It takes much longer than he expected, but he finally finds him hiding out in the shadow of a fallen tree. On the other side of the tree are four of Cenred’s men setting up camp. They don’t look to be going anywhere soon.

He shares this information with the Knights.

“Can you two come around this side?” He uses a stick to sketch out the scenario in the dirt and detritus, and points to two different spots that are opposite the ‘x’ that is Arthur. “And then give a signal when you’re in position. I’ll make my way to Arthur and when we hear the signal, we’ll all attack at once.”

Percival nods approvingly. “We’ll make a war strategist out of you yet, Merlin.”

They separate, each going into the woods and Merlin slowly makes his way to the low gulley where Arthur is currently pinned down. He comes around the far end of the tree where Arthur is crouched and holds a finger over his mouth when Arthur spots him.

"Merlin!” Arthur hisses out when Merlin is close enough. “What are you doing here? I ordered you back to Camelot.”

Merlin just flashes his most irascible grin. “Oh, did you, My Lord? I must’ve misheard. I thought I heard you tell me that you had no plans to stay behind?”

“Merlin,” Arthur chastises. He looks around. “Where are the others?”

“Sneaking up on the patrol. We’re just waiting for their signal and then we’ll all charge in.” He can’t help beaming over his plan.

“Fine,” Arthur agrees. “But you stay here behind this tree.”

“What?” Merlin protests, albeit quietly. “I’m not going to stay behind.”

“You haven’t even got a sword, Merlin.” Arthur points out.

Which is a good point. Merlin forgot to take Arthur’s spare off of the saddle.

He starts to protest anyway. “No, Merlin.” Arthur shuts down his reply before it leaves his mouth. “No, I’m not going to let you risk your life. I want you to stay here. Stay safe.” His eyes flick down to Merlin’s chest and then back up at his eyes and to his mouth, but won’t settle in any one spot. “Please,” he adds softly.

Dumbstruck, not so much at the word but the soft tone it’s delivered in, Merlin can only nod. “Of course, Arthur.”

He feels fingers touch his neck and Arthur finally meets his gaze. “Merlin, I —“

Whatever words are about to leave Arthur’s lips are lost as the call of a bawdy crow sounds loudly through the tree.

Percival’s signal.

Arthur pulls his hand away from Merlin’s face, nods a quick silent assurance and then springs over the log with a shout. It’s followed by sounds of voices raised in confusion and alarm and then the familiar noise of swords clashing on armor.

Merlin stays out of sight behind the log but can’t help peeking over the top to keep an eye on the combat. Between the three of them it doesn’t take long to dispatch four patrolmen. Chiding him the entire time for not following orders, Arthur all but drags Merlin back to the waiting horses.

Their horses are blowing hard and lathered and the men aren’t much better by the time they enter the northern gates in the late afternoon. Arthur takes a quick moment to parse out instructions (ordering Lancelot to visit Gaius to get his arm seen to and sending Percival to find Leon and meet him in the council chamber) and then heads immediately to see the King.

All around Camelot are signs of a city getting ready for siege. The city is swollen with people who’ve been pushed from their homes by the advancing army. Everyone seems to be in the midst of some kind of preparation. Caches of arrows are being set out at strategic locations, food stores are being wheeled to the inner city, shops and homes are being boarded up. There’s a low buzz among the populace, a sort of general sense of urgency and anxiety. Merlin notices that it seems to calm when Arthur passes by. The people take solace at the sight of their Prince, and Merlin can feel the charge of his presence in the very air.

Uther is in his council chamber when they find him, surrounded by his advisors. Gaius is there as well, and he smiles at Merlin when they come in the room. Clearly pleased to see him back in one piece.

“Father,” Arthur says without preamble as he interrupts the discussions, “I bring news.”

“Arthur,” Uther acknowledges, nodding at his son. Merlin doesn’t think the look of relief on Uther's face is his imagination. “You’re back earlier than I expected. Though I’m glad of it. Cenred has stepped up his plans. We’ve had refugees flooding the city, and reports of large amounts of troop movement throughout the countryside.”

“He has.” Arthur moves to table and points out various locations on the map of Camelot that’s rolled out on its surface. “The bulk of his army is already coming together here.” His hovering hand shifts from one area of the map to another as he speaks. “Iseldir was correct that he’s got troops coming together to our east as well. They’re no longer in isolated pockets and are forming up for a two front assault.”

Uther frowns. “That’s certainly going to affect our strategy for defense. And what of Idirsholas. Were you able to reach the citadel?”

Merlin squirms as Arthur gives a curt nod. He knows he’ll be called on to explain the sword. He wouldn’t be quite so nervous but he’s also got to sneak a bit of magic past the King. One thing he hadn’t mentioned to Arthur was the fact that his father had actually seen – and used! – the very same sword that Arthur now wields. Merlin needs to make sure Uther won’t recognize it.

“We were, Father. And once again, the druid did not seek to deceive us. Someone, who we believe to be Morgause, has been in the citadel and has awoken the Knights of Medhir.”

Uther’s eyes widen. “You saw these Knights?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I didn’t personally. Sirs Lancelot and Percival encountered them while I was in a different part of the citadel.”

“You’re sure these where the famed Knights of Medhir?” His eyes narrow. “That your men did not merely encounter outlaws?” Uther still isn’t fond of Lancelot, and extends that distrust toward Percival.

“Yes, Father,” Arthur nods, “absolutely sure. There were six figures, head to toe in black armor and cloaks, and wielding ancient swords. Both Lancelot and Percival struck these Knights many times over and killing blows had no effect on them.” There are low grumbles around the table. “Per my orders, they retreated and we regrouped to immediately return to Camelot.”

“The Knights of Medhir are rumored to be unkillable, Sire.” Gaius points out.

“How then are we to stop them? If this Morgause is indeed controlling these Knights and should use them in the battle, what recourse do we have?”

“I’ll look into it at once, Sire.”

“Thank you, Gaius. Report back to me when you have any information.”

“About that,” Arthur begins. He unsheathes the sword. “Merlin and I were investigating a different part of the citadel and we found this.”

Merlin steps forward at Arthur’s beckoning gesture. He bumps against a pillar as he does so, allowing himself to stumble and giving him the chance to grunt out a near silent, “Áblendan gelíc.” He straightens to see Arthur frowning at him.

“Sorry,” he mutters as he moves to Arthur’s side.

Arthur ignores him and holds out the sword. “We believe this weapon is capable of stopping the Knights. Of killing them.”

Uther takes the sword and studies it, holding it out and looking down the length of the blade. “There’s something familiar…,” he mumbles and then seems to blink to clear his vision. “A fair looking blade and decent balance, but what makes you think this is capable of stopping the Medhir?”

“Merlin can explain,” Arthur elbows him forward.

“Merlin can?” Uther repeats flatly. His gaze falls on Merlin like a tangible weight.

“Well, your Majesty, the sword was in a case and there was a scroll inside as well. I cannot read some of the older languages as well as Gaius, but he’s taught me quite a bit.” He glances over his shoulder at Gaius briefly, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. “And, from what I could make out, the sword has uh, an enchantment on it that is tied to the magic that animates the Knights.”

Arthur nods, adding, “It can kill them, but once they’re all destroyed the spell that enchants the sword is destroyed with them.”

“And this scroll, do you have it still? I think I’d like to get a more learned opinion.” He waves a dismissive hand towards Merlin. “No offense to the boy, Gaius, I’m sure he’s learned much under your tutelage.”

“Of course, My Lord.” Merlin hears Gaius respond, “I’d like to get a look at this scroll myself.”

Though he refrains from bristling at the insult to his intelligence, Merlin can’t help the slight bite to his voice as he say, “I’m sorry, My Lord. I’m afraid that the scroll was quite aged and nearly crumbled to dust. It was lost when we fled the keep.”

Uther sighs and the disdain is plain in his voice. “Well I suppose we’ll have to take the word of a servant, then?”

Merlin starts to sputter out a further explanation, but to his surprise Arthur takes a step forward, almost putting himself in front of Merlin. “I saw this scroll as well, Father. I trust that what Merlin tells me is the truth and that this sword will work.”

That earns them both a frown, but then Uther gives a curt nod. “Very well. I hope you understand that I’d still like for Gaius to look into other methods to stop these Knights.” His smile is slightly condescending, “It is only one sword, after all.”

“Of course, Father.” Arthur agrees.

“Come, let’s have a better look at the placement of Cenred’s troops and what you and your men observed.”

Knowing that he is dismissed – indeed Uther is now looking past him as if he isn’t even there – Merlin turns away leaving Arthur to the discussion of tactics and strategy. He joins Gaius.

“Merlin,” Gaius speaks low into his ear, his voice hidden under the sudden upsurge of voices from around the map table. “I think we need to talk.”

Merlin gulps. “Of course.”

They leave the council room and return to Gaius’ chambers. Lancelot is waiting inside. “Oh!” Merlin hurries over to his friend. “I’m sorry, Lancelot. I knew you were told to get your wound looked at.”

“It’s alright, Merlin.” He turns so Merlin can see the injured arm. There’s a fresh white bandage wrapped around it. “When I came here and couldn’t find Gaius, I sought out Gwen instead. She cleaned and rewrapped it, but wanted Gaius to look it over.” He nods at Gaius.

“I’m sure Guinevere did a fine job,” Gaius says, but moves to Lancelot’s side. “I’ll just take a quick look to make sure it’s not at risk of festering.”

While Gaius works, Lancelot raises an eyebrow at Merlin. “How did it go? Reporting to the King?”

“Arthur told him about Idirsholas,” Merlin adds a significant inflection on the name. On the return ride to Camelot Arthur discussed his plans to modify the truth when reporting to his father with Percival and Lancelot.

“So he believes us about the fact that these… things,” he says with a moue of distaste, “are as dangerous as was feared?”

Merlin shrugs and looks to Gaius. “Do you think Uther believes, Gaius?”

Gaius looks over at him with his eyebrows dipping in a ‘v’ over his nose. “That depends on which truth you wanted him to believe, Merlin.” His voice is just as arch as his brows.

“Gaius?” Merlin asks, feigning wounded innocence.

“I’ve seen that sword before, Merlin.” Gaius tells him as he finishes winding the bandage around Lancelot’s arm. Judging from the way Lancelot is cringing, Merlin thinks Gaius may be letting out a little of his annoyance on Lancelot’s arm.

“Oh.”

Lancelot stands. He looks between Merlin and Gaius. “I think I should probably report back to Arthur.”

“Coward,” Merlin mumbles, which earns him a culpable shrug as Lancelot beats a hasty retreat.

“Well, Merlin?”

Taking a seat at the table Merlin points to the other side. “You may want to sit down, Gaius. I’ve a lot to tell you.”

For a moment Gaius looks as if he might protest, as if somehow standing and glowering at Merlin is going to have any different effect than sitting across from him and doing the same. “Oh, very well.” He sits and then steeples his fingers. “Now, out with it, boy.”

“Yes,” Merlin nods. “You have seen that sword before. It’s the one that Uther used to defeat the Black Knight.”

Gaius slaps the table and then shakes his hand, frowning. “I knew it. Merlin, I thought you’d gotten rid of that. You know what it can do in the wrong hands.”

“I know, Gaius. And I did. I threw it in the Lake of Avalon.” He drops his gaze to the table. “But these Knights of Medhir are much like the Black Knight, are they not? I needed to give Arthur a fighting chance so that I can deal with Morgause.”

He looks up to see that Gaius’ thunderous expression has eased somewhat. It’s still not entirely calm, though. “And just how did you explain the origins of this sword to Arthur, or how you even knew about it?”

“Well, you see,” he starts to say but then Gaius holds up a hand.

“And don’t try to tell me that you managed to convince Arthur the sword was left in Idirsholas. I know the two of you are colluding on this. I want the truth, Merlin.”

Merlin heaves a sigh. There are so many threads of lies he has to keep from getting tangled. Lies he’s told Gaius, lies he’s told Arthur, lies he’s told to Morgana. While it’s all in the name of seeing Arthur safe and protected, he’s weary of fighting so hard to keep things from crossing. He’s tiring of struggling with keeping them all straight. Still, sometimes the truth is much more of a burden. He knows Gaius isn’t going to be happy with him.

“I took Arthur to Avalon. He retrieved the sword himself from the bottom of the lake.”

Gaius nods. “And what did you tell him of the sword’s origins?”

“The truth.” He admits. “That it was forged in the breath of a dragon.”

“Merlin!” Gaius thumps the table again and Merlin almost reaches out because he winces immediately after.

“I had to, Gaius,” Merlin protests. “I didn’t tell him that I was the one who had the sword forged. I told him that I’d heard the legend of the sword from my father.”

“And he believed you?”

Merlin nods. “Yes. He did. And _he’s_ the one who thought of the story to tell Uther about where we found it. Please, Gaius. I know you’re worried, but I trust Arthur.”

Gaius sits back, folding his hands once again. He doesn’t look happy though. “You’re putting an awful amount of faith in Arthur to keep your secrets, Merlin. I know you trust him and I sincerely believe that Arthur is a good man, but he is still the King’s son. What do you think he’ll do if it comes down to a choice of whether to keep your secret, or expose you should the King demand it?”

This is an easy question for Merlin to answer. “I think that Arthur wouldn’t betray me. I trust him with my life, Gaius.”

“But not the truth of your magic?” Gaius asks, and the arch tone is back in his voice.

The conversation is painfully reminiscent of one he had with Will not long before he was killed. He has a better understanding of his feelings this time, though, and feels none of the same guilt or shame that Will’s accusations had engendered.

“The only reason I’ve not told Arthur about my magic is because I don’t want to put him in a position where he does have to choose. I wouldn’t ask that of him.”

Gaius peers at him. “And you think that Arthur would accept your magic?” There’s no condemnation in his tone, merely curiosity.

Does he? Merlin thinks hard on the question. He’s slipped up more than a few times, confusing his knowledge of the Arthur he knew with what he knows of this Arthur now. Some of the bond they shared, the deep abiding friendship built on years of support and camaraderie, isn’t quite there yet. Yet at the same time, there’s something else between them, something new that wasn’t there the last time he lived through this part of his life.

The trouble is that he’s not sure what exactly it _is_ that exists between him and Arthur at this point. There are times, especially in the recent weeks, that he would swear Arthur’s teasing and laughter has a flirtatious tone (he can think of no other explanation for Arthur’s actions on the waters of Avalon). But he doesn’t know if he’s seeing that because it’s true, or because he wants it to be true so badly.

Merlin hedges his bets and answers judiciously. “I think that Arthur would be surprised, and probably very angry with me at first, were he to learn the truth. But I think he would eventually understand and forgive me.”

For some reason that answer makes Gaius look sad. “That could be, Merlin. But I fear that even Arthur’s forgiveness would not go very far as far as Uther is concerned.”

“I know, Gaius. And that is why I’ve not told Arthur.” He places a hand over Gaius’ where they're folded flat on the table. “Don’t worry, Gaius. Whatever happens with Morgause I have no plans to out myself as a sorcerer in front of Uther _or_ Arthur. I’ll be careful.”

Gaius slips a hand out from under the pile and pats the top of Merlin’s with it. “I hope so, my boy. I’ve been quite worried for you lately. You know I’ve not been thrilled with your idea to expose your gifts to Morgana, and it just seems you’ve been a bit more reckless these past few weeks.” His mouth turns down at the corners. “I sometimes feel as if I’ve done something that makes you feel you cannot talk to me.”

Merlin’s heart sinks. He’d never wanted to hurt Gaius. “I’m sorry, Gaius. Please don’t think that I’d ever feel that way. I know I’ve done some things, made some choices lately that you don’t agree with and I don’t want you to think that I’m doing that to be defiant or because I’m upset with you.” He squeezes his hand tighter and feels the grip returned just as strong. “You’ve been like a father to me, Gaius and even though I know my real father now, I don’t want to lose what we have. I know you have my best interests at heart and I truly don’t ever want anything to come between us.”

Gaius stands. “Come here, my boy.” He tugs Merlin up into a hug. “Don’t you worry, Merlin. Nothing would ever come between us.” He gives Merlin’s back a few more gentle pats and then draws away. “Now, we’ve got preparations to make.”

“Preparations?” Merlin echoes.

“Yes, of course. Cenred’s army will be on Camelot within a matter of days. I’m afraid that will mean lots of wounded. We’ll need to prepare as much as we can ahead of time. Bandages, potions. All of that.”

“Of course,” Merlin nods.

Over the course of the next two days Cenred’s army appears on the fields outside the city walls, while inside the populace continues to ready for war. Merlin is kept running almost non-stop, both for Gaius and Arthur. He sleeps little himself and has to fight to get Arthur to get him to rest at all. He sneaks some time to talk with Morgana about the upcoming battle, especially about what it might mean if Morgause makes it into the city.

For all the tension that’s been building it almost seems a relief to Merlin when Cenred finally orders his men to attack. It’s early morning and he’s standing on the battlements with Arthur when the first charge occurs. Arthur watches, impassive, as at least a few hundred men rush the keep walls, a half dozen siege ladders carried between rows of them. He’s got a line of archers all along the wall, just waiting for his word. His arm is up in the air, and he calls out a sharp, “Hold!” Merlin can see that the men are strung as tight as their bowstrings waiting for the order to release. “Hold!”

The soldiers are nearly to the wall by the time Arthur drops his arm and commands, “Fire!” The release of hundreds of arrows sounds to Merlin’s ears like an angry swarm of bees. He watches as at least half of Cendred’s first charge drop beneath their rain.

The archers have already knocked their next arrows and again Arthur gives a curt chop of his arm. “Fire!”

More bodies land on the ground. Some are still moving, crawling away from the range of the archers, but many are lifeless and unmoving. None of the siege ladders make it to the wall.

A second wave of men rush the field shortly after, picking up the ladders dropped by their fallen brethren. Again they try for the city walls, and again the Archers decimate their numbers.

“What’s he doing?” Merlin asks once the second surge is reduced to a few dozen who are dragging fallen comrades and retreating back to Cenred’s ranks.

“Likely testing our defenses.” Arthur explains in a clipped tone. He’s as emotionless as Merlin’s ever seen him. Merlin knows it’s because he worries for Camelot. For the city itself, for its people and for his Knights and his father.

“But he’s just throwing lives away.” Merlin knows that Cenred holds the lives of his soldiers in little regard, but the flagrant loss of life is hard to witness.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees, again with that short, sharp nod. “And he’ll continue to do so. We have the advantage of the keep. We can withstand a siege for some time. Cenred knows that our resources are limited. Unfortunately he’s the type of man who’s willing to throw lives away to force us to deplete those resources more quickly."

“What of the eastern wall? Will he do the same there?” While Arthur commands the whole of Camelot’s army, the two-front assault necessitated a division of men. Sir Leon is commanding the wall from the east.

Arthur nods. “Very likely.”

Merlin shakes his head, tone bleak. “Such a waste of life.”

“It’s war, Merlin.” He sounds resigned and it makes Merlin want to do whatever it takes to stop this battle and take this terrible responsibility from Arthur’s shoulders. Since he can’t do that, he just nods and stands by Arthur’s side.

“Sire,” Lancelot calls out, approaching from the east. He’s acting as Leon’s second in command and coordinating between both lines of defense.

“Report.”

“Two waves with siege ladders. None made it to the wall.”

Arthur turns to look over the battlements to the carnage spread out beyond the city’s wall. “The same over here, Lancelot. Any sign of Morgause or the Knights of Medhir?”

Lancelot shakes his head. “No, we’ve not seen any sign.”

Arthur frowns. “That’s worrisome. I wouldn’t have expected Cenred to start his attack without Morgause present. Rumors we’ve picked up on suggest that she’s almost as much in charge of his Kingdom as Cenred.”

“They’re planning something,” Lancelot agrees.

“I just wish I knew what it was.” Arthur blows out a frustrated breath. “Thank you Lancelot. Return to Leon and let him know we’re seeing the same on this wall.”

Lancelot gives a quick bow of his head. “Yes, Sire.”

“I wonder what she’s planning.” Merlin muses aloud.

“I wish I knew, Merlin.”

It’s especially frustrating to Merlin because he feels as if he should be able to figure out Morgause’s strategy. He has memories of her using Cenred to attack Camelot, as well as using the Knights of Medhir, but both of those events happened because she’d gotten to Morgana.

Without Morgana as a factor, he’s not sure what her goal will be. Does she want Camelot for herself? Or does she have some other agenda? He’s been spoiled with his foreknowledge and not having it any longer leaves him feeling even more anxious than he’d normally be.

Over the course of the day Cenred sends out two more sallies, the second wheeling massive siege engines behind teams of oxen. Fortunately they move slowly and archers with flaming arrows are able to target most of them and set them alight long before they reach the city wall. One does make the wall, even as fire chases up its side, and Arthur watches – his whole body twitching with desire to be down amongst his men – as the enemy soldiers who climb out of it (both to attack and avoid the flames) are quickly cut down. A long pole sends the burning wreckage crashing away from the wall.

By the time night falls the fields outside Camelot are littered with corpses. Merlin knows they’re going to need to do something about that sooner than later. Sickness and disease are as much a concern as dying by axe or sword. Cenred’s troops retreat back to their main staging areas and Merlin watches as campfires flare up in the darkness, dotting the landscape like fireflies.

Merlin manages to talk Arthur into leaving the ramparts for a quick meal and a few short hours of rest. He gets little himself, seated at Arthur’s table (the only way he can convince Arthur to sleep is with the assurance that he’ll stay and alert him immediately if there’s any news). Mostly he just watches Arthur sleep and worries about Morgause.

They’re back up on the battlements the next morning before dawn. Even after the sun rises the sky is grey with thick cloud-cover and a light misting drizzle makes for slippery footing on the castle’s stone. Merlin is sitting with his back up against a merlon in a half doze while Arthur stands nearby taking with Lancelot when a strange, low noise startles him awake.

He looks up at Arthur and then at Lancelot and neither of them seem to notice anything is amiss. Which is odd because the sound, a deep thrumming that Merlin can feel countering his own pulse, is growing stronger.

“Arthur,” he barks out.

Arthur holds a hand up, telling him to wait.

He stands and takes Arthur’s arm. “Arthur,” he hurries to say before Arthur can shake him off. “I think something is happening.”

Arthur spins to look at him then. “What do you mean?” He glances around but doesn’t see anything amiss.

He realizes then that this is Morgause’s magic at play. It’s strong. Stronger than Merlin thought she was, actually.

With Arthur frowning at him, starting to look angry instead of merely annoyed, Merlin hurries to think of some way to explain it. “I think it’s Morgause. I don’t know how to explain it, Arthur—“

He breaks off when one of the house guard sprints up the nearest staircase. “Sire,” he calls out in alarm. “There’s something wrong with Princess Morgana.”

“What is it? What’s happening?”

The guard shakes his head wildly. “She just started screaming, Sire. No one can calm her down. Your father is with her, but she doesn’t seem to be aware of him.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The guard nods and hurries off.

“No, Arthur.” Merlin grips tighter at his arm. “This must be because of what Morgause is doing. Can’t you sense it? There’s something in the air. Maybe Morgana can sense it too?”

Arthur shakes his head, “What are you talking about? Sense what?” He peels Merlin’s fingers away from his arm. “We don’t have time for this.”

“No, Arthur.” He grabs for Arthur again, catching the sleeve of his mail tunic. “Wait.”

Arthur spins back to him, mouth open to admonish, when it clamps shut with a snap. His eyes go wide in disbelief and horror.

Merlin turns to follow his gaze.

“Archers, to the walls!”

At first Merlin doesn’t see what it is that’s caught Arthur’s attention and then he realizes that he can see movement in the low-hanging mist that shrouds the battlefield.

“Oh god,” Merlin groans, “She’s raising the dead.”

Merlin watches as Arthur orders a salvo fired at the once-dead men who are now slowly gaining their feet and shuffling in uncoordinated movements towards the city wall. Many arrows hit their marks but few of the dead men drop. Those that do quickly return to their feet.

“How the hell do we kill the dead, Merlin?” Arthur asks frantically.

“You’ve got the sword,” Merlin offers weakly.

Arthur shoots him an incredulous expression. “It’s one sword. There are hundreds of dead men out there.”

“Fire, then.” He suggests, and almost belatedly realizes it’s a good idea. “Yes! Light the arrows. They’re dead men being controlled by magic, so they can’t be killed, but I bet their bodies can be destroyed.”

There’s a brief moment where Arthur beams at him and Merlin feels it as if the sun's come out from behind the clouds to shine over his whole being. He claps Merlin on the arm and then goes to the edge of the battlements himself. He picks up a spare bow and sets an arrow with a cloth-wrapped tip in place. “Light it, Merlin. There’s a torch over there.”

Merlin hurries to comply. He swings the torch around and the oil-soaked binding catches in a flash. Arthur moves between the merlons and takes aim and then looses the arrow. It hits it's mark, slamming into a dead man’s torso. The corpse’s clothes are quickly ignited and soon the man’s whole head is engulfed. It stutter-steps forward a few more paces and then falls to its knees, and finally collapses to the ground where it stops twitching after a few moments.

“Fire arrows!” Arthur calls the order. Along the wall men scramble to comply. Merlin looks down at the man Arthur struck. The flames are snuffed out where the man collapsed into the damp grass.

“Arthur!” Merlin points. “It’s too damp. Some of them may not stay burning.”

Arthur grins wildly. “We can fix that!” He grabs a passing guard by the tabard. “You. Get down to the lower wall and get some men on the bailey to start running with buckets of oil. We need to get these dead men to burn!”

They watch as Arthur’s orders are carried out. Lancelot comes to report the same events on the western front and Arthur sends him back with orders to dispatch troops with more oil and arrows.

Despite the chaos, it becomes clear that their tactic is working. Luckily Cenred keeps his living soldiers back from the field. The dead are slow-moving and while kill-shots don’t have any effect on them, the fire does the trick.

“Breach!”

Arthur and Merlin turn in tandem at the voice that hollers above the din. “We’re getting reports of a breach in the western gate!”

Scrambling across the slick stone, Arthur hurries as fast as he can toward the westerly part of the castle. Merlin is right on his heels.

“Western gate?” Arthur spits out as he narrowly avoids slamming a hip into the crenellation. “What the hell is she doing over there?”

Oh hell. Cenred and his army are nothing but a diversion. He tells Arthur this.

“What’s Morgause playing at, though?” Arthur pants out.

“She wants into the castle herself. With the Knights of Medhir. Arthur, we’ve got to stop them.”

Arthur skids to a stop, grabbing at Merlin to stop him as well. He tugs at Merlin’s jacket, pulling him along even as he changes direction for the nearest set of stairs that lead down into the castle.

He draws the sword. “Come on. We’ve got to hurry.” He explains as they run. “I instructed the men not to engage the Knights if they could help it, but I wasn’t expecting them to come in like this. I thought I’d be able to take them on in the field.”

They round a corner coming down a staircase from the battlements and Arthur scrambles to a stop. Merlin crashes into him from behind. Fortunately Arthur keeps his feet, because there are dead Camelot soldiers on the floor in front of them.

“I don’t understand,” Arthur says slowly, looking around him at the carnage. “How could they have made it to the castle so quickly?”

Merlin crouches next to one of the dead guards. “Look at this one, Arthur. There’s not a mark on him. This is the work of Morgause. She might have the Knights of Medhir with her, but apparently she’s not above killing herself.” He looks further down the hall where he can see the legs of another body sticking out from behind a corner. “She must’ve just cut a swath through anyone who stood in her way.” He stands. “We have to be careful.”

Morgause’s flagrant use of killing magic, on top of the power she must’ve channeled to conjure the dead, is disturbing to Merlin. Morgause should not be this powerful. Either she’s stronger than he realized, or she’s throwing away her resources in her haste, draining herself in her impatience. Merlin knows from experience that too much powerful magic in too short a time can be as exhausting as all-day battle in full armor.

“We have to get to the throne room. To my father. Come on.”

They hurry through the distressingly empty corridors, stepping over and around far too many bodies. They’re near the hallway that leads to the throne room before the sound of combat reaches their ears. Arthur signals them to a halt just before they turn the corner. “Grab a sword, Merlin.” He instructs.

Merlin looks down at the nearest dead guard, likely someone he knows or has talked to, and swallows down his revulsion to pry a sword from the dead man’s fingers.

“Ready?” Arthur asks.

“Ready,” Merlin nods.

They charge around the corner as one and further down the hallway is a veritable wall of black. The Knights of Medhir are being held at bay by a line of Camelot red as Knights and guards alike stand shoulder-to-shoulder. The clatter and clash of sword-on-sword is nearly deafening.

Arthur raises his sword and charges with a rallying cry that sounds above the din. “For Camelot!”

The first Knight of Medhir turns and moves to meet Arthur. Merlin watches the first few exchanges, Arthur successfully parrying a heavy down stroke and then a skewering jab and countering with his own thrust, and then looks past the fighting, trying to find Morgause.

He spots her on the opposite end of the hall, on the other side of the crush of undead Knights and living men. Her attention is on the battle. She’s clearly intent on getting into the throne room. Somehow Merlin knows that Morgana is in there with Uther.

A loud shout turns Merlin’s attention back to Arthur just in time to see him strike the dark Knight with a slash that cuts deep across its chest. Arthur has to yank the sword back from where it gets suck within the Knight’s ribcage. The Knight looks down at the sword being drawn from its body, looks back up at Arthur – eyeless behind the helm – and takes a step forward.

“No,” Merlin groans. The sword should have worked.

Arthur feints back and is about to stab forward again when suddenly the Knight falters. It takes another half step forward and then topples.

“Yes!” Arthur cries out, shooting a look of triumph back at Merlin for just a split second. Then he’s facing forward again waiting for the two Knights of Medhir who turn at the fall of the fellow and advance on him. “Get to the throne room.” He orders Merlin in the midst of parrying the swords of both attackers at once. “See to my father and sister. Get them out of here.”

“No, Arthur, I can’t lea—“

“Go!”

Reluctantly, Merlin puts his back the wall and sidles against it, skirting the fighting as best he can. The Camelot guard, having seen their Prince defeat one of the seemingly unstoppable Knights, rally and surge forward, pushing the throng away from the doorway. Merlin slips past, ducking swords and shields and limbs and manages to squeeze inside the room. Uther is there, Morgana at his side looking pale and wan but standing upright on her own, and a circle of Knights surround them.

“Where is Arthur?” Uther shouts.

“Just outside.” Merlin jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s facing the Knights of Medhir.”

“And the sword? Can he defeat them?”

Merlin nods grimly. “Yes. He’s already killed one. But they know he can harm them. Morgause is out there as well. She’ll be in here in a moment. You need to flee, Sire.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” Uther draws his own sword and steps down from his throne to join the line of Knights standing as a barrier between him and the enemy.

“My Lord, Arthur is buying you time to get away.”

Already Merlin can hear the battle behind him closing in. He risks a look back just as a half-score of Camelot men are tumbled and thrown into the room. Morgause.

She strides into the room, grimly triumphant, and three of the Knights of Medhir follow her.

“Arthur,” Merlin groans out. Arthur can’t be dead. He can’t be.

“Why King Uther,” Morgause says, stepping over the body of a fallen Camelot Knight. Merlin can’t tell if he’s dead or merely knocked out. “You really should have fled while you had the chance.”

“Morgause,” Uther says, voice dripping with disdain.

“Ah, so you remember me, then?”

“What do you want here? Why have you attacked Camelot?”

Morgause rears her head back with an ugly laugh. “You have the gall to ask me that question, Uther Pendragon? You who have persecuted my kind and murdered innocents for two decades? I’m here for revenge, of course.”

“I don’t have to justify myself to the likes of you.” Uther takes another step forward.

“Oh,” Morgause replies, “I think you do.” Her hand comes up and the row of Knights between her and Uther are flung back through the air. Merlin winces at the sounds of them crashing to the floor. “Take him,” Morgause commands and the three Knights of Medhir slowly approach Uther. He steps back warily and raises his sword.

But there are three of them and only one of Uther and though he fights gamely, he doesn’t have an enchanted blade. They have him disarmed and down on his knees in a matter of moments. One grips the back of his hair and yanks his head back, holding a sword against his throat.

“No!” Morgana cries out. “Please, you can’t do this.”

Morgause approaches the throne, her movements almost stalking. “Oh I can, Lady Morgana, and I will. It is long past time that Uther Pendragon paid for his crimes against magic.”

“Please, stop this. Please. I beg of you.”

Morgause shakes her head at Morgana’s pleading but her gaze is fixed on Uther. “There is no plea that can stop me carrying out this justice.”

Merlin meets Morgana’s gaze and they share a nod. A silent communion of what they know must happen next. As Morgause advances, Morgana steps forward, hand held out.

“You will not harm him.” She warns Morgause.

This seems to take Morgause aback. She eyes Morgana with puzzlement. “You would seek to stop me? Sister, how could you stand against one of your own?”

“Sister,” Morgana spits. “I am no sister of yours.” She’s pale, and trembling but her hand doesn’t waver.

Morgause’s mouth twists into a perverse grin. “Oh, but Morgana, you are. In more ways than one. I am the eldest daughter of Lady Vivianne.

“That’s impossible,” Uther grits out, ignoring the blade at his throat. “That child died.”

Morgana looks between them, faltering. “What do you mean?” She cries. “What child?”

Merlin can’t let this continue. “Don’t listen to her, Morgana! She’s lying! She only seeks to confuse you!”

Morgause turns on him with a flick of her hand. Merlin’s prepared, but the magic still catches him in a rush and sends him tumbling into the wall. He gasps as his shoulder is slammed into the stone and he knows a moment’s panic when he can’t get his breath back. Over his desperate gulping for air he hears Morgause speaking again.

“No, I speak the truth, Morgana. I am your true family.” Her smile grows wider as Morgana’s hand slowly lowers. “Not this usurper who call himself your keeper.”

As Merlin watches she advances on Uther again. He struggles in the grip of the Knights, but they hold him fast. “What is he to you, Morgana, but a man who treats you as little more than chattel. Who doesn’t know what you truly are or are capable of.”

“What are you talking about?” Uther rasps. The blade against his throat presses deeper.

“Oh, you haven’t told him, have you? He doesn’t know your secret. He calls you his ward and yet you haven’t told him the truth.” She raises her sword, putting the point to Uther’s chest. “He’ll have to die not knowing.”

Morgana’s head lifts back up along with her arm. “He calls me his daughter,” Morgana exclaims icily. “And he will have the truth now!” Her eyes flash as she pushes the hand forward with an angry thrust.

Merlin silently throws his own power to Morgana’s as she sends out a blast of magic that sends Morgause and the Knights of Medhir tumbling.

“Father!”

Arthur charges into the room as the bodies go flying. He looks frantically from Merlin to Morgana to Uther.

“Kill her,” Merlin urges hoarsely. “Morgause, kill her now and it will stop them!” The Knights of Medhir are already gaining their feet.

As is Morgause. She pushes herself up from the stone floor. Blood wends its way down her cheek from a gash in her forehead.

Arthur charges across the floor to get to her, only to be intercepted by the Knights. They form up around Arthur in a half circle and he darts in with quick snake-strikes of the sword, and then dances away from their swinging blades.

“You think to challenge me, sister?” Morgause hisses as she gathers herself. Her eyes are glowing as well and crackling light forms around her raised hand.

Morgana steps down from the dias, past Uther who is lying prone on the floor and staring up at her in shock. “I am not your sister.” She counters just as the blast of lightning streaks towards her.

“Scildan!” Merlin whispers, once again throwing his power into the fray, shielding Morgana from the bright, spidering lines of energy that spark and snap against the invisible barrier.

“Ástríce!” Morgana shouts, and a gout of flame shoots back at Morgause. She’s always been good with flame spells. It engulfs Morgause, whirling around her in a fiery dervish. Merlin can see that Morgause is managing to shield as well though; she’s untouched in the midst of the flames.

He can stop that.

He pushes a hand towards Morgause and hears her scream as the magical energy surrounding her is dissipated by the force of Merlin’s magic.

Morgause drops to the floor, managing to voice a word in the midst of her agony, “Cume þoden!” A rush of wind engulfs her, blowing the flames to nothingness. She’s all-over-scorched, her clothes and skin a blackened mess, but still she tries to claw at the air to cast another spell.

Arthur shoves through the Knights who are slowing and faltering, charging with a shoulder down and knocking them aside. He reaches Morgause and stands above her for a moment, his face blank of anything whatsoever.

Her fingers curl toward him but nothing happens. “Please,” she whimpers.

Arthur’s mouth is a thin, hard line as he drives the point of the sword through her chest.

Behind him the remaining Knights of Medhir collapse to the ground, the magic animating them dying with Morgause.

“It’s done,” Arthur says quietly. He turns towards the dias where Morgana is now slumped against Uther’s throne, cradling her father against her.

“I’m sorry, father,” she’s muttering. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Uther is pale, and wide-eyed, but he’s got his arms around Morgana and doesn’t look to be letting go any time soon.

Arthur slowly walks toward them. He lets the sword fall with a clatter on the stone floor. “Father? Morgana?” He shakes his head as if that will help clear up the confusion. “What’s going on?”

“You have magic,” Uther says to Morgana, voice cracking. He sounds devastated.

Morgana nods against his shoulder. “Please don’t send me away, father. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you but I’ve been so afraid.”

Arthur starts forward again but jerks to a halt as several people rush into the throne room all at once. Percival is leading; a group of Camelot soldiers on his heels.

“Sire!” Percival calls out. He stops and takes in the carnage in the room, the odd tableau of Uther and Morgana. “Is everything alright in here, sire? We received word from the men you sent that Morgause and the Knights of Medhir were in the throne room.”

“We’re fine now, Percival.” Arthur hurries to assure him. “How fare things on the walls?”

Percival bares his teeth, and it takes Merlin a moment to realize it’s a grin. “Well, Sire. The dead men just dropped dead, er, again. And that seems to have thrown Cenred into disarray. He’s called back the troops that were advancing. He may even be in retreat.”

“Good, that’s good news.” He turns to Uther. “With your permission, father, I’d like to take the battle to Cenred. To rid our lands of him once and for all.”

Uther seems to be barely listening, but he nods and lifts a hand to Arthur. “Just be careful, my son.”

Arthur nods. He stares at Morgana and his father for a moment and then turns away. “Gather the men and let’s ride out.” He claps Percival hard on the arm. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

Percival bows his head. Merlin can tell he’s aware that there’s more going on here than anyone is saying. After he leaves, Arthur waves Merlin over. He’s a bit wobbly, Morgause’s shove knocked him hard into the wall, but he hurries to Arthur’s side.

Arthur can’t seem to look at him. His gaze fixes on a point just over Merlin’s shoulder. “Find Gaius and bring him here. I suspect my father might need his attention.” His tone is emotionless. “And then assist Gaius as necessary with the wounded.”

“Yes, My Lord.” Merlin replies, speaking just as formally as Arthur is, even though he doesn’t understand the reason for it. He doesn’t want to leave Arthur’s side, especially knowing that he’s planning on riding out to force Cenred’s surrender, but there’s something about Arthur’s tone and manner that says it will brook no argument.

Merlin turns to leave and spots Arthur’s sword on the floor. He picks it up and presents it to Arthur. “Be safe, Sire.” He tells Arthur softly.

Arthur takes the sword and bows his head a moment. When he looks up at Merlin, he’s managed a smile, but it’s an odd one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I will.” Arthur gives him a little shove. “Now go, find Gaius.”

Merlin hurries from the room. Outside in the hallway there are fewer bodies than Merlin expected to see. He makes his way through the halls to the barracks where he finds Gaius and Gwen and several others treating a few of wounded. There aren’t as many as he expected, although he knows that means that most of the fallen are dead.

“Merlin!” Gaius exclaims. “There you are, my boy. Is everything alright?”

Merlin shakes his head and then reconsiders and nods. “Yes. Well, it’s… complicated. But the good thing is that Morgause has been defeated and it seems as though Cenred’s not keen on sticking around without her.”

“But that’s good news, Merlin. Why do you look so distraught.”

“Look, Gaius, can you come to the throne room?” He gestures to the sick beds. “Can you spare a few moments?”

Gaius looks around and then nods. “Yes. It should be alright for a few minutes. Everything we’ve had to treat so far has been superficial.” He takes up his medicine pouch after Merlin hands it to him.

“What’s happened?” He asks once Merlin has ushered him out of the room and is all but dragging him down the hallway.

“Uh, well Morgause got into the throne room and was going to kill Uther, so Morgana and I stopped her.”

Gaius jerks to a halt. “Merlin!” He spins on Merlin and hustles him back into a side corridor. “Did Uther see?” He asks urgently. “Did Uther see you using magic?”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head. “Not me. But he did see Morgana. He’s with her there now.”

Gaius backs up hastily and tugs Merlin along. “Well then come on, Merlin. We’ve got to hurry.”

Merlin rolls his eyes but refrains from comment as he follows after Gaius. They encounter several small groups of guards carrying their comrades down the halls. Gaius stops each one and briefly examines the unconscious men. When Gaius puzzles over the cause, as well as number of men in that state, Merlin explains Morgause’s method of attack.

“It seems as though some of Morgause’s victims weren’t killed instantly.” He shoots Merlin a questioning look. “Perhaps the count of dead won’t be as high as we feared.”

“I hope you’re right, Gaius.” He quiets when they enter the throne room. Morgana and Uther are still seated on the floor at the foot of the dais. They’ve changed positions though and Uther is the one with his back to his throne and Morgana leans against him, his arms around her. The sight gives Merlin hope.

There are other’s moving through the room, more of the Knights checking on their fallen comrades and clearing out bodies, and Gaius is called over to check on two of them before he can make his way to the King.

“Are you alright, Sire?” Gaius asks, kneeling down slowly. Merlin gives him a hand.

“I’m fine, Gaius.” There’s a bruise on Uther’s temple, a cut over one eyebrow and he’s got a split lip, but otherwise he doesn’t appear to have suffered too much at the hands of the Knights of Medhir. “Fine thanks to my brave daughter.” The smile he turns on Morgana is one of genuine pride.

Merlin waits until Gaius is dabbing at Uther’s eyebrow to look at Morgana. He raises his own eyebrow at her, silently asking “What’s happened?”

Morgana gives the barest lift of her shoulders, and her smile is tremulous but unafraid. Merlin mouths, “Later,” and Morgana nods.

Whatever he missed in the immediate aftermath seems to have gone well for Morgana.

Gaius, luckily, can give voice to Merlin’s thoughts. “What happened here, My Lord?”

Uther’s eyes narrow as they shift to Merlin and then back to Giaus, and Merlin waits for some kind of admonishment about keeping quiet lest he be beheaded or hanged, but nothing comes. “Didn’t your boy tell you?” Is all Uther asks.

Gaius snorts noisily. “Of course he told me some of it, but I’m unclear on some things. I’d like to hear it from you, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Gaius.”

Uther’s agreeability makes Merlin wonder if perhaps Morgana didn’t take the opportunity to calm him in some – magical – way. He certainly seems unusually calm in the face of everything. He’ll have to get Morgana alone later and get the whole story out of her.

Uther fills in gaps on what occurred prior to his and Arthur’s arrival, explaining that they were warned of the breach in the western wall only a few minutes before being alerted to the approach of Morgause and the Knights of Medhir. Uther’s personal guard stationed themselves in the hallway, leaving a handful of Knights in the throne room.

Merlin tries to pay attention but his thoughts are torn between finding out what happened here, and of Arthur. It makes him ache to not know how Arthur fares on the battlefield; that he’s not there to protect him. It isn’t until Uther gets to the part with Morgana facing off against Morgause that he fully focuses.

“She had me, Gaius,” Uther is saying, smoothing a hand over Morgana’s hair. “Morgause was just about to kill me when Morgana stepped forward. Even fearing for herself, and so afraid of what I might say, she put aside those fears was brave and strong and saved my life.”

“My Lady?” Gaius asks tentatively. “How was it you were able to defeat Morgause?”

Morgana swallows, hesitating.

“Go on, dear.” Uther encourages. “You’re safe, I promise.”

Morgana nods against his chest. “Magic, Gaius. I have magic.”

Merlin has to give them both credit, they’re feigning quite well that this is news to either of them. Merlin knows they’ve not really spoken much of it between them directly – he tends to be their go between – but he’s kept Gaius abreast of Morgana’s progress, and told Morgana of Gaius’ knowledge. “Are you alright, Lady Morgana?”

She nods again. “I am, Gaius. And I want to thank you for always being there for me. I’m sorry I didn’t come to you with this. I know you’d have helped me. I was just so afraid.”

“I wish I’d been able to help you, My Lady, so you weren’t so alone.” Neither of them looks at Merlin, but he feels the weight of their words.

Uther puts a hand on Gaius’ shoulder. “You’ll be there for her from now on, Gaius. Morgana will need your guidance and knowledge.”

“Uther, far be it from me to question you,” Uther actually huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes (Merlin is really starting to wonder what happened in his absence), “but what of the laws regarding the practice of magic.”

Merlin tries not to fidget.

“Gaius,” Uther says laconically, “am I or am I not King?”

Gaius nods. “You are, Sire.”

“There you are then. Obviously the laws will need to be revisited. But, I will not have magic run wild in Camelot,” he can’t keep the scowl off his face. “Perhaps to start, lesser punishments might be considered for those who break the laws.” He smiles at Gaius and it’s not all-together friendly. “I’m sure you’ll have some good ideas on how we can proceed. And my daughter has just saved Camelot; anyone who questions my decisions as far as she is concerned can address their concerns directly to me.”

“Understood, My Lord.” Gaius shoots Merlin a dark look, obviously worried he might be considering speaking up, but Merlin just shakes his head in bemusement. He’s got no plans to out himself to Uther. Still, what he’s just witnessed is miraculous in its own right. Knowing he won’t be able to get more of what really happened until he can speak to Morgana privately, Merlin’s thoughts turn to Arthur.

Boldly, he asks Uther, “Uh, My Lord. Is there any word from Arthur?”

Uther looks momentarily startled at being addressed by Merlin, but then he frowns. “No. I’ve not heard any word.” He eyes Merlin speculatively. “Gaius, do you need the boy right now?”

Gaius looks at him and then shakes his head. “Not at the moment.”

“Find Arthur,” Uther instructs. “I want to know what’s happening on the battlefield.”

Merlin nods dutifully. It’s rare that his and Uther’s desires align. “Yes, My Lord.” He hurries out of the room before Gaius can find a reason to stop him.

Finding Arthur proves harder than he anticipated. None of the few Knights he encounters have seen him, or know which way he’s gone. Merlin returns to the battlements to find that Cenred’s army is in full retreat. Neither Leon or Lancelot are atop the wall, so Merlin assumes they’ve ridden out with Arthur.

He next makes his way to the King’s stables. While Arthur’s mount is missing, Merlin’s sturdy bay gelding is still inside. He hastily saddles the horse and leads him from the stall. Eventually he learns from the stablemaster that Arthur and his men rode off through the north gate. He heads in that direction and finds the portcullis still well guarded, but wide open. Obviously they must not be too concerned about invaders.

On the fields outside of Camelot it’s much easier to follow the trail of the men on horseback pursuing the departing army. He crests a hill to a scene of chaos spread out below him in a valley. Cenred’s army is bottlenecking as they enter the woods and their progress slows. Cutting through the veritable sea of foot soldiers are blurs and flashes of Camelot red.

It’s going to be impossible to find Arthur in the middle of all that. Merlin's about to put his heels to his horse’s barrel when he notices that there’s a spot clearing up in the middle of the combatants. Cenred’s men have drawn away to form what looks like a makeshift arena.

“Oh no,” he mutters. Because a man strides into the cleared space, and then a second one – this one in a red cloak – joins him. They come together and even from this distance Merlin can see the glint of swords flashing.

Arthur, that idiot, must’ve challenged Cenred to single combat. Which is all well and good, except that he’s an idiot for believing that Cenred is not above cheating to win. He was forced to concede the field today, it’s likely he’ll have no compunctions about letting his men slaughter Arthur if he suspects their combat of not going in his favor.

Merlin urges his mount down a hillside slick from drizzle and the passing of thousands of feet. It’s a harrowing ride, and he dismounts near the edges of the battle on shaky legs. Many of the men have given up their arms and are just milling around or pushing their way towards the woods. Apparently Cenred’s men don’t feel much in the way of loyalty.

Merlin takes advantage of this and slips through these spaces, avoiding anyone who looks like he might be interested in taking Merlin’s head off. A few of Arthur’s Knights ride by and even more men scramble out of the way of trampling hooves. Merlin eventually pushes between the ring of bystanders who are watching the combat between their leader and the Prince of Camelot.

Arthur is a mess to look upon. Sweat, dirt and blood streak his face and stain his armor and Merlin fervently prays that it is not his own blood. Despite the grime, he still looks like the epitome of a Prince. At least to Merlin’s eyes. He’s got a one-handed grip on his sword and is on the offensive against Cenred, who’s blocking Arthur’s series of quick strikes with a battered shield.

Arthur dances back, his movements fluid and graceful and he’s grinning like a wild man as he shouts something taunting at Cenred. Cenred responds with a roar and a clumsy charge and Arthur steps aside neatly, catching Cenred across the shoulder as he passes by.

Merlin frowns. Arthur’s just playing with him at this point. He’s only seen a few minutes of their combat and it’s enough to recognize that Arthur is the superior opponent. So why hasn’t Arthur defeated him yet?

Again, Arthur shouts out something that enrages Cenred. So much so that he throws aside his shield and comes at Arthur with an out of control two-handed swing. It should be the end of the matter. His attack is clumsy and leaves him totally exposed to counter attack. But once again, Arthur just steps aside and lashes out at Cenred with a non-lethal, but obviously painful, strike across the thigh. Cenred stumbles and Arthur hops back, giving him enough space to regain his footing.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouts, because this has clearly gone on long enough.

Arthur’s head comes up and he searches the crowd. When he spots Merlin his whole demeanor changes. The smile falls away and he tightens his grip on the sword. He turns to Cenred and squares his stance. Cenred limps forward, blade angled across his body, showing more caution than he has so far. Arthur circles him, stepping sideward and not leaving any openings.

Then Arthur missteps slightly, leaving his right flank exposed and Cenred takes the opening and lunges.

Except Merlin recognizes the feint. Cenred’s playing into Arthur’s hands.

Sure enough, Arthur arches his body to the left as Cenred’s sword jabs through the space it just occupied and then Arthur swings out with a wicked upstroke that catches Cenred just under his ribs and the force Arthur put behind it drives the blade deep into Cenred’s chest before he yanks it back. Cenred curls in on himself, sword dropping as he clutches at his own abdomen. He wavers just a moment and then drops hard to his knees. Arthur doesn’t hesitate in delivering the coup de grace, and he severs Cenred’s head from his shoulders with one swift stroke.

Around him Merlin hears the men reacting to the death of their leader. Arthur stands ready, sword held high and head thrown back with a grimace. He knows his life is in danger but he doesn’t even blink in the face of it. No one steps forward to meet him and the mass exodus continues around them. Across the space his eyes find Merlin. They stare at each other for a long moment – one that Merlin has no idea how to interpret – and then Arthur turns away and shouts for his men.

He bellows out orders, instructing them to follow the stragglers and to take down anyone who still wants to stand and fight but to let the rest go unimpeded. As his Knights scatter to do his bidding Arthur turns his attention back to Merlin once more.

He strides across the field to Merlin then and grabs a fistful of Merlin’s jacket when he reaches him. “What the hell are you doing here, Merlin?” Arthur is angry. Furious.

“I came to find you, Arthur. I had to know if you were alright.”

Arthur just blows out an exasperated breath and then starts moving, dragging Merlin with him. “Come on. You’re going back to Camelot.”

“Aren’t you coming?” He’s feeling lost in the face of Arthur’s anger and why it seems to be directed at him.

“I’ll come back with my men.” He pushes Merlin towards his horse.

“I need to report back to your father,” Merlin explains, as if that might excuse things and make Arthur less angry with him. “He sent me to find you, Arthur.”

“Well you’ve found me.” Arthur bites out. “Now go. Get back to the city. Tell my father that I’m fine and that I’ll return to Camelot when we’ve ensured the stragglers have been cleared out.” He takes a deep breath and blows it out through flaring nostrils. “Wait for me, in my room.” At Merlin’s nod of acknowledgment he turns on a heel and stalks away.

Merlin watches after him for a moment and then hefts himself into the saddle. He turns his horse back towards Camelot and urges him into a canter. He suddenly wants to get as far away from the battle – and the niggling fear that Arthur’s genuinely angry with _him_ \- as possible.

He reports back to Uther as soon as he returns, carrying word of Cenred’s death at Arthur’s hands. They’ve moved to the smaller dining room – Uther and Gaius and Morgana – and while Uther thanks him for the news, his attention is quickly returned to Morgana and Gaius. They’re deep in a discussion about Morgana’s magic (he knows he’ll get details from Gaius later). Merlin can tell that it’s going to be some time before he’s going to manage to get Morgana alone.

With nothing else to do, Merlin returns to Arthur’s room to wait for him. He picks at things desultorily for a few minutes – there’s nothing to really clean up – and then decides to fill the bath for when Arthur returns. He leaves several kettles of water over the fireplace to add later, but the water grows tepid and then cool and still Arthur hasn’t returned.

Merlin supposes that he reported to Uther as soon as he was back in the city. And obviously everything that Arthur witnessed with Morgana has to be discussed. He understands that that would take time.

He leaves the room eventually to go down to the kitchens and fetch Arthur dinner. He knows that Arthur barely ate anything that morning for breakfast, and probably hasn’t had time for anything since.

Still more time passes with no sign of Arthur. Merlin picks at the plate of food himself, too afraid to leave to fetch his own dinner. The anticipation is killing him.

It’s late, the midnight bells have long since sounded, by the time Merlin hears the door creak open. He looks up as Arthur comes in and lets out a long sigh of relief. “Sire, you’re back.”

“You waited.” Arthur states, oddly.

“Of course.” Merlin replies with a frown. Was that ever in question? Did Arthur not expect him to stay? Merlin’s not sure. Things feel oddly charged between them and he can’t pinpoint why. “I uh, drew you a bath but it’s probably gone cold.” Arthur must’ve found a moment to clean himself up because although he’s still in armor, the blood and sweat and dirt are gone from his face.

“That’s fine, Merlin. Help me with my armor, would you?”

Merlin practically springs from his chair in his haste to do so. “I brought you dinner as well.” He nods to the half picked-over plate on the table as he begins unbuckling. “Sorry, I got a bit hungry while I was waiting. I can run to the kitchens to fetch more.”

Arthur just shakes his head. “No. I ate with my father and sister.”

“Oh, well that’s… good.” Everything he says feels clumsy and out of place. He doesn’t know how to right whatever is off between them.

Arthur stays silent as Merlin struggles with buckles and fittings that are swollen with moisture or tight with grime. Eventually he manages to get the armor off and Arthur just holds his arms out for Merlin to remove the padded surcoat as well. His tunic beneath is sweat-stain and spotted brown at the hem and sleeves.

“Are you hurt, my Lord?” Merlin asks.

Arthur looks down at himself, though he hardly seems to be focusing. “No.” The barest ghost of a smile flits across his lips, there and gone in half a heartbeat. If Merlin wasn’t watching Arthur so closely he’d not have seen. “None of it’s mine.” Arthur adds and there’s something about those words that seem so very sad. Merlin can’t figure out why.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He moves to the cupboard. “Let me fetch you some clean clothes. I’ve still got two kettles heating, and I can run to the kitchens for more hot water if you want it?”

Arthur shakes his head. “Just a quick wipe down, Merlin. I’m too tired for a bath tonight.”

“Of course, Sire.” He fetches two cloths, a drying towel for Arthur to wrap around his waist, and smaller one for him to scrub with. While Arthur steps behind the screen to undress, Merlin takes one of the still simmering kettles off of the fire and pours it into a bowl. He adds a bit of cold and the tests the temperature.

Arthur comes out from behind the screen bared but for the towel wrapped and tucked securely. He walks to stand near the fire with his back to Merlin.

“Sire?” Merlin asks, because he’s not sure what Arthur’s expecting. He can’t figure out Arthur’s mood. He seems exhausted but there’s an odd energy just beneath the surface that suggests he’s anything but.

“Would you mind, Merlin?” Arthur asks.

It takes Merlin a moment to realize what Arthur’s asking. “Of… of course, Sire.” He stammers, because Arthur has never asked this of him.

Merlin’s hand is shaking when he dips the cloth in the bowl. He wrings it out slightly and then lays it gently over Arthur’s left shoulder. It takes him a moment to press his fingers down onto it. He can feel the tight muscle beneath as he starts to move his hand in slow circles across the topline of Arthur’s shoulder, scrubbing away lingering sweat and dust and flecks of blood. He pulls the cloth away to rinse it and then returns to Arthur’s other shoulder. He moves down the center of Arthur’s back next, and then up to his neck.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, though he occasionally moves his body to accommodate Merlin’s cleaning; tipping his head forward so Merlin can get at his neck, lifting an arm so Merlin can run the cloth down his ribs, shifting when Merlin needs to get his right arm.

Merlin’s breath grows shorter with each stroke across Arthur’s body and he tries so very hard not to let out breathy gasps when his fingers get bunched up in the cloth and glide over bare skin.

Arthur’s whole torso is heaving when Merlin finishes with his back but he doesn’t turn. Afraid to say anything, to break this odd tension that’s building, Merlin wets his cloth again and steps closer to Arthur. He reaches over Arthur’s arm, touching gingerly at Arthur’s chest. Arthur groans but doesn’t stop him and still doesn’t turn.

Emboldened, Merlin steps even closer. He drags the cloth up to Arthur’s throat and along his collar and Arthur leans his head to the side, baring his neck. When he pushes at the space behind Arthur’s ear he thinks he hears a soft huff of laughter. He tries again on the other side just to hear it again.

Another rinse of the cloth and Merlin snakes his arm beneath Arthur’s this time, and moves back down to scrubbing the broad planes of Arthur’s chest. He has to step closer, almost pressing his front against Arthur’s back, to reach all the way across. With his next pass, Merlin circles the cloth lower. Beneath the flat of his hand he can feel the hard peaks of Arthur’s nipples even through the material. Arthur’s whole body twitches when he passes over them, so Merlin does it twice more.

He rests the fingers of his other hand over Arthur’s hip. For stability, he tells himself, even as he dips lower with the cloth, sweeping it in gentle arcs across Arthur's quivering belly. He stops when he encounters the barrier of the towel.

Arthur’s hand lifts to cover his, pressing Merlin’s hand hard against his stomach, sliding it lower and lower still, pushing it beneath the loosening edge of the towel.

He tips his head forward, resting his forehead against Arthur’s neck. The bare skin there is covered in a fine sheen and Merlin has to press his lips against it, taste it with his tongue. He hears Arthur hiss out a breath.

Arthur guides his hand down still further and Merlin feels the hard length of him brush against his knuckles. Arthur pulls his own hand away then, but doesn’t remove Merlin’s. So he guides the cloth lower still, to the crease of Arthur’s thighs and then back up, letting his fingers brush past velvety skin, barely skimming in their touch. He moves to the other side, not quite touching where Arthur seems to want him.

“Merlin,” Arthur finally breaks the silence, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

Ever one to obey his Prince, Merlin drags his lips across Arthur’s neck as he wraps Arthur’s length in the cloth and the grip of his fist.

“Merlin,” Arthur complains, though on the heels of a low moan it doesn’t sound like much of a complaint at all.

“You wanted me to clean you off, Sire.” Merlin replies, forming the words against Arthur’s skin and sliding his hand down in a slow, teasing stroke.

That earns him a laugh, though there’s an odd quality to it that Merlin can’t quite place. He takes his hand and the cloth away and steps back. “Sire?”

Arthur’s shoulders heave as he takes a ragged breath and then he turns around, finally facing Merlin. His eyes are dark, pupils wide and circled by thin rings of cobalt. Firelight turns some of his hairs to spun gold and gilds his pale skin. The towel is still hanging on, but barely, slung low around his hips and Merlin can see the evidence of Arthur’s arousal beneath the draping fabric.

“Arthur?”

Arthur steps forward in a way – intent, purposeful - that tells Merlin he should step back. He does, and Arthur advances again, and again, not walking but prowling them back across the room until Merlin’s back bumps against the wooden post of Arthur’s bed.

“Arthur,” He says again, but it’s not a question, it’s a plea.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want this.”

“You’re right,” Merlin agrees, biting down on a groan as Arthur’s knee nudges between his thighs. “I can’t tell you that.”

Arthur laughs again, low and breathy. “I didn’t think so.” He lifts a hand to Merlin’s face, cupping Merlin’s jaw and leans in close until their mouths are just a scant hairsbreadth apart. “I’ll stop if you ask me to, Merlin,” Arthur rasps, “but I don’t want to stop. I want this. I want you.”

Merlin closes the distance by way of answer, chasing after Arthur’s mouth with his own. Arthur’s lips are as soft and inviting as Merlin has always imagined. His tongue darts out, flicking against Merlin’s lower lip and Merlin has to open himself to it.

He touches tentatively at Arthur’s body, skating his fingers across skin he’s longed to touch since the first time he saw it bared before him. He curves one hand around Arthur’s hip, stroking his thumb over the silk skin beneath a jutting hipbone, and he lets the other roam over Arthur’s chest, pressing into the muscles he’s always admired, knuckling over the bumps of Arthur’s ribs and scraping his dull fingernails over the peaked nipples.

He feels hands tugging at his coat, pushing it off of his shoulders. Arthur backs up just a fraction, giving Merlin enough room to shuck it completely, but he doesn’t pull his mouth away from Merlin’s. Arthur’s hands then slide down his sides, clumsily grappling for the hem of Merlin’s tunic.

“Belt,” Merlin mutters against Arthur’s mouth equally loath to break the kiss. Arthur hums a question, the vibrations tingling Merlin’s lips, and Merlin repeats, “Belt.” Arthur must catch on, because he stops struggling with Merlin’s tunic for a moment and his fingers start to tug impatiently at Merlin’s belt.

Though it means removing his own hands from Arthur’s skin, Merlin reaches between them and works his own belt open. He lets it drop and then his hands get tangled with Arthur’s as they both pull at his tunic. “Let me,” Merlin mutters. He wants to speak every word he’ll ever say against Arthur’s lips. He does have to pull away though, to tug the tunic over his head, but as soon as it’s tossed to the floor, Arthur’s mouth is on his again, biting and licking.

“The neck scarf,” Arthur reminds Merlin. “That too. You wear them all the time,” he mutters, “and every time I get a glimpse of your throat I want to bite it.” The very idea makes Merlin flush all over and he struggles with the ridiculous knot at the back. His fingers have never felt so inept. Finally he manages to untangle the ends, but before he can tug the cloth away, Arthur reaches between them and does it for him. “I’ve always wanted to rip one of those things off of you,” he admits, and then puts his hands on Merlin.

The first touch of Arthur’s hands on his bare skin is like the first time he ever felt magic course through him. It’s a line of fire up his rib cage as Arthur fits his big hands around Merlin’s waist. Merlin works his own hand between them again, which is getting more difficult as the space is nearly non-existent and because Arthur is circling his hips, rubbing his hardness against Merlin’s.

The skin of Arthur’s belly is so soft against the backs of his knuckles as he tugs at the laces of his own trousers. When they’re loose enough to push down, he does so, taking his underclothes with them. The clothes get caught around his thighs, because Arthur can’t seem to move away long enough for him to shimmy them down, so he he tugs Arthur’s towel with a yank, which is only staying up because their bodies haven’t moved far enough apart for it to drop, pulling Arthur’s thighs away from his long enough to kick his trousers away from a tangle around his feet.

Arthur growls into his mouth. “Merlin.”

“Arthur,” Merlin counters, nipping at Arthur’s jaw in retaliation. That earns him a groan and Arthur throws his head back, baring his neck to Merlin’s mouth and teeth. He goes pliant in Merlin’s arms when Merlin bites down at the tender skin behind his ear.

“Come on,” Merlin urges. “I’ve dragged you off of that bed enough times. Don’t make me drag you into it.”

“Is that right, Merlin?” Arthur rumbles low and breathy.

“Yeah,” Merlin replies with a sharp nip at Arthur’s throat.

“Alright,” Arthur whimpers even as he tightens his grip on Merlin’s waist and shifts him to the side, away from the post and fully onto the bed. Merlin falls back on the mattress and pushes into it with his heels so he can squirm backwards and sprawl out fully. Then he sits up, grabs at Arthur’s arms that are bracketing his legs and tugs Arthur back on top of him. Arthur lets himself be pulled up and then rolls slightly to his side and puts a leg on either side of Merlin’s.

“Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to drag _you_ into this bed?” Arthur asks, skating his hands along Merlin’s ribs and then down his flanks. He takes a firmer hold of Merlin’s backside, pulling Merlin’s body snug against his, bringing their groins together.

“Oh god,” Merlin groans. "Probably not as often as I've wanted you to do so... So long. I've wanted you..." He can feel his own hardness slicking against Arthur’s with every shift of their hips. It’s almost too much to bear. “Arthur…”

“It’s alright, Merlin.” Arthur urges, rocking his hips, rutting with abandon.

“But I want,” Merlin pants out and then forgets what he’s even asking for.

“We will.” Arthur assures him, almost breathlessly.

Merlin’s release is like magic, shooting up his spine and making all the muscles of his back and legs go taut. He rolls his hips into Arthur’s to savor it and to encourage Arthur to follow him. He can hear the rising pitch of Arthur’s whine. Arthur is so close. He licks at Arthur’s throat – at the ‘v’ that’s always exposed by Arthur’s loose tunics, and then drags his teeth along Arthur’s collar bone and bites down gently.

Arthur comes with a long, low keening sound. He shifts his hips a few more stuttering jerks and then his whole body goes slack. He pants against Merlin’s chest, the hot breath prickling Merlin’s sweat-slicked skin.

“Arthur,” Merlin says, probably rather reverently as he’s feeling quite awed, “that was…”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, “it was.”

Arthur reaches up to the head of the bed and grabs at one of his pillows. He tucks it under his head.

“Hey,” Merlin protests weakly, “don’t I get one?”

In answer, Arthur just manhandles him until Merlin’s head is resting on his chest. “That better?”

“Well, you’re not as soft as a pillow.”

Arthur slaps him on the thigh with the flat of his hand.

Merlin starts to doze but he can tell from the rigid tension in Arthur’s frame that he’s still wide awake. “Arthur?” he asks softly, “what is it?”

“Sorry, Merlin. Just thinking.”

“About what?” Merlin asks.

Arthur doesn’t answer at first. “How long?” he asks when he finally does speak and he sounds almost embarrassed of the question. “How long have you wanted this? You said earlier, that you’ve wanted this for so long… I just, wondered.”

Merlin nestles his head against Arthur’s chest. “Truthfully?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, with an odd catch in his voice.

“Well, that depends. Do you mean how long have I wanted to get into your bed, or how long have I felt this way about you?”

Arthur flops his head to the side on his pillow so he can look down at Merlin. “Those are two different times?”

“Well yeah. I mean, the very first time I saw you I thought you were beautiful.” Arthur snorts so Merlin amends, “Alright, rugged and manly. Of course, then I learned what a prat you were, so I might’ve gotten over that initial thought for a time.”

“Really?” Arthur asks drily.

“Not long, though.” Merlin has to admit. “It wasn’t really any one thing, just we started to get on and you listened to me. And sure, you also threw things at me and called me names and hit me and told me to ‘shut up’ more times than I think anyone has ever been told to shut up—“

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupts.

“Shut up?” Merlin guesses.

Arthur shakes his head. “No. No, it's just I don’t want you to think any of that has really ever been because…”

“Don’t worry, Arthur, I know what that is. It’s the same as whenever I call you a prat or a dollophead.”

“Don’t forget clotpole,” Arthur grumbles.

“Oh yeah, one of my favorites.” He sobers. “It’s just the way things are between us, right? How we say the things we can’t say.”

He feels Arthur nodding. “Yes.”

“So I’ve wanted to fall into your bed practically since I first saw you. But I don’t really know how long I’ve felt this way. Probably after you saved my life by risking yours to retrieve the morteaus flower."

“Why did you never say anything?"

“I couldn’t, Arthur. You’re the Prince and I’m just… “

“A servant?” Arthur huffs out a frustrated breath. “But you should know that wouldn’t have mattered. I cared for Guinevere, I think I could have even loved her, and she’s just a servant as well.”

“You _did_ love Gwen, Arthur. I know you did. And that’s another reason I never said anything.”

Arthur goes silent for a long while. So long that Merlin begins to wonder if the conversation is over. Then Arthur speaks again. “If things had been different, would you have watched me be with her?”

“Yes,” Merlin says, immediately. “And I’d have been happy for you, Arthur.”

“How can you say that?”

Merlin swallows thickly, feeling the tightness in his throat and the burning of unshed tears behind his eyes. “Be… because loving someone means wanting them to be happy.”

“Loving?” Arthur echoes, and Merlin doesn’t understand why he sounds so sad. He tries to roll over further, but Arthur’s hands hold him in place. It’s not a struggle, but an embrace, like Arthur doesn’t want to let go.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “Loving.”

“Good.” Arthur says, kissing the top of Merlin’s head.

“What about you?” Merlin asks, speaking into the valley of Arthur’s chest. “How long have you…?”

“Wanted you? Haven’t I always said there’s something about you, Merlin?”

Merlin frowns. “C’mon, be serious, Arthur.”

Arthur gives him a quick, sharp squeeze. “I am, Merlin. Since the moment I met you and you defied me so brazenly.”

“You wanted to kill me.” Merlin says mulishly.

“Only because I kind of also wanted to kiss you. It wasn’t really a feeling I was quite comfortable with.” He sobers and Merlin glances up to Arthur chewing at his own lip. “In truth, Merlin. I don’t know. As you said, there was Gwen. You’re right. I think I did love her. In another life, if there wasn’t Lancelot?” He shrugs, the motion something Merlin feels with his whole body. “I don’t know when I realized I was looking at you differently.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Well, maybe. Do you remember that night you came into my room after you had a nightmare?”

Merlin stills and his breath catches in his throat. He manages a nod.

“You were looking at me with such… I don’t know. Trust. Like you believed I really _could_ chase away the terrors from your dreams. I don’t know why but after that night I felt something different.”

“Oh,” Merlin says in a small voice. It almost terrifies him to know that he’d begun changing things for Arthur almost the moment he came back. He wishes so terribly that he could tell Arthur the truth. “I wish I’d known.” He says instead.

“Really, Merlin?” Arthur’s tone is somewhat disbelieving.

Merlin frowns, confused. “What?”

Arthur’s hand clenches tight over his hand and Merlin looks down at it. He’s holding quite tight.

“You’ve been so oblivious, Merlin. Didn’t you know that I wasn’t upset about you and Morgana because of Morgana. It was because of _you_.”

“What? Really?” Merlin looks back up at Arthur and finds himself pinned by an incredulous look.

“I cannot believe you didn’t know that,” Arthur sputters. “I thought for sure you’d finally get the hint at Avalon.”

“Oh god,” Merlin slaps a hand to his forehead. “The way you got undressed.”

“Yes,” Arthur gripes, “and threw myself onto you in the boat.”

“I’ve been a bit of a fool, haven’t I?”

“A bit of a fool? Bit of a dollophead, I’d say.”

Merlin chuckles, but it’s cut short by a yawn that makes his jaw ache with the pull of it.

“Tired?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah,” Merlin has to concede. He doesn’t want to sleep. He wants to stay awake, held tight by Arthur, in his bed, skin-on-skin, for as long as he can.

Arthur lets loose a teeth-clacking yawn of his own. “It’s been a long day.” He says and Merlin fights the urge to snort. That’s an understatement if he’s ever heard one.

“It certainly was a surprising day,” Merlin says with another yawn, unable to hold it back. “The battle, and the Knights and Morgause.”

“And Morgana’s magic.” Arthur adds, almost like it’s a question. “I definitely wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yeah, of course,” Merlin agrees, feeling a pang of guilt in his belly. They’ve confessed so much, been so honest. It would only be the work of another few words to let the truth spill out between them. But he can’t bring himself to do it. He can’t risk this. “That certainly came as a surprise.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, but suddenly all the levity seems to have been leeched from his voice. Merlin doesn’t know why.

“Arthur?”

Arthur’s doesn’t say anything but his hand comes up to stroke over Merlin’s back and along his hip and rear. Merlin feels a stirring between his legs and apparently Arthur feels it too, where Merlin is pressed against his firm thigh, because he increases the pressure of the long slow passes of his hand. He reaches between Merlin’s legs, cupping him, teasing him to hardness with gentle tugs and long, slow pulls.

Merlin works a hand down Arthur’s torso and finds Arthur already hard. He traces his fingertips over the plump head, and down the length and then curls his whole hand around him and strokes just as slowly and teasingly as Arthur is stroking him. He can’t help rocking his hips into the tight grip of Arthur’s fist and he can feel Arthur’s own hips jerking up, jostling the whole mattress.

Arthur pulls his hand away suddenly with an almost angry growl. “Come here,” he rolls onto his side, fitting his knees behind Merlin’s and drags Merlin more squarely to spoon against his front. “Like this,” he urges, almost desperately, once again reaching around to wrap a big hand around Merlin, while Arthur’s own erection slips into the tight space of Merlin’s thighs. The feel of it sliding there, every thrust teasing at his cleft and the pushing at sensitive skin behind his bollocks is almost more than Merlin can bear.

It’s a difficult angle, but Merlin twists his head to the side searching for Arthur’s mouth. He finds it and their kiss is wild and aggressive. Arthur’s tongue plunges into his mouth in the same tempo as his thrusting hips. Merlin has to break away from Arthur’s mouth, to bite down on his own lips as the glide of Arthur’s hand and the thrust of his hips rock in a counterpoint that leaves him gasping and panting and finally coming so hard he almost doubles over from it. It’s almost too much when Arthur grips his hips and holds him firmly in place and ruts against his backside over and over, faster and faster, until he’s spilling between Merlin’s thighs with an almost agonized groan.

In the aftermath Merlin manages to find the towel that he flung onto the bed earlier and he wipes them both down. Then they maneuver on the bed again, settling their heads onto the pillows and drawing the bedcovers up.

“Tell me something,” Arthur says, drowsily tracing a fingertip over Merlin’s chest in random circular motions.

“Hmm?” Merlin replies almost asleep himself.

“Do your eyes always flash golden like than when you do magic? Is that normal?”

Merlin nods sleepily. “Yeah, that’s—“

The realization of what he’s just admitted hits Merlin like a slap. He starts to stammer. “I mean, that’s what Morgana’s eyes did. Which you saw?” He adds the last hopefully.

Arthur flattens his palm over Merlin’s heart. “No.” He shakes his head almost regretfully. “I saw your eyes. I saw you use magic. I know Morgana did as well, but she was not alone.”

Merlin tries to sit up, to scramble away, but Arthur’s hand pushes down in a steady, relentless pressure. “Arthur, I can explain.”

Sounding deceptively calm, Arthur nods. “Go ahead then. Explain to me how you used magic.” He shifts up from his side, moving over Merlin, holding himself up on one elbow and the hand braced on Merlin’s chest. The sadness Merlin thought he saw in Arthur’s eyes when this all began is no longer hidden beneath passion and hunger.

This parody of intimacy is too much for Merlin. He squeezes his eyes shut to try to stave off tears the he can already feel and admits the truth. “I have magic.”

When Arthur doesn’t say anything for many long minutes, Merlin opens his eyes. Arthur isn’t looking down at him anymore, but has his head turned away instead. His voice is small when he asks, “Were you ever going to tell me?”

“I wanted to, Arthur. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

“I thought,” Arthur begins, sounding so broken and lost, “I wanted you to tell me yourself tonight. I thought… I’d hoped. Why could you tell me you loved me and not tell me this?”

“Arthur,” Merlin cries out. The words hurt more than any words ever have before. Not even the worst agony of a spell has ever gutted him the way Arthur’s heartbroken question just did. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you. I truly did.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Arthur snaps out, his rage sudden and unexpected. “I’ve given you every opportunity. I’ve kept your secrets, Merlin. I’ve lied to my own father’s face and risked my neck to protect you time and again, and still I’ve not earned your trust?” Merlin flinches from the raw anger.

Arthur pushes himself up and away from Merlin, moving to sit with his back to the wall. Merlin slowly slides up to sit next to him, pulling the covers over his lap. He feels so raw and exposed and he doesn’t know what to do in the face of Arthur’s betrayal.

Merlin tries to explain, choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t want to force you to lie for me any further, Arthur. Can’t you understand that? If I were to burden you with all of this, it would just mean more lies that you had to shoulder. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“So I was good enough to keep your secrets when it suited you, but not because you actually wanted to share them with me?”

“No!” Merlin protests. “Arthur that’s not it at all. I didn’t tell you to protect you.” He reaches out a hand to Arthur’s shoulder but it’s jerked out from under him, so he lets it fall back to his side.

“Protect me? From who? My father? After everything you and I have been through, did you think so little of me? Did you think it would be easy for me to just say ‘Oh, Merlin’s a sorcerer. Never mind that he’s the best friend I’ve ever had, and that I drive myself sick with thoughts of him, I’d better just turn him over to my father!’”

The realization that he’s misjudged Arthur this whole time isn’t an easy one for Merlin to face. He hangs his head. “I didn’t know what to think.”

“No, you just decided to continue lying to me. To lie to my face even when you knew how I felt—“ He stops in the midst of whatever he’s saying, changing subjects. “Who else knows?”

“Gaius,” Merlin admits. “And Morgana.”

Arthur’s scowl grows knowing. “So that’s the secret between you two. It’s been driving me mad. All this time I knew there was something going on. I thought it was…” He trails off, looks away. “But then you both denied it. Morgana even took me aside and told me to stop being so jealous of her. That she wasn’t trying to steal you away from me.”

Merlin gapes. He had no idea Arthur had ever talked to Morgana about him. Not like that.

“Who else?” Arthur asks and it takes a moment for Merlin to realize he’s back to the question about who knows the truth. When Merlin hesitates Arthur shakes his shoulder. “No lies. Tell me.”

“Lancelot,” Merlin says softly, unable to meet Arthur’s eyes. “And Percival. Please don’t be angry with them.”

“Have they always known? Did you admit your secret to them?” The bitterness in Arthur’s tone is a terrible thing to hear.

“No, I mean, they discovered it. Lancelot saw me use magic the first time he was in Camelot, against the Griffin.” Arthur snorts derisively. “He swore to keep my secret because I saved his life.”

“And Percival?”

“It was when I went to find my father. I didn’t intend for him to know. I just forgot about a spell I cast on the smoke from a campfire. Percival saw it, and saw that Lancelot knew and never remarked on it. I didn’t seek them out to tell them, Arthur, honestly.”

“So if I’d caught you doing something strange, you’d have admitted the truth to me?”

It’s a loaded question, Merlin knows that. He shrugs hesitantly. “I don’t know, Arthur. I… I’ve been so afraid of telling you. I’m not sure what I’d have done.”

Arthur huffs out a sound that is the antithesis of a laugh. “Oh, I know what you’d have done. You’d have lied to me, like you’ve lied every single damn time I’ve ever caught you doing strange things. All those oddities, Merlin, all those times when weird things happened to me, that was all to do with your magic, wasn’t it?”

Merlin hefts his shoulders weakly. “Possibly. Probably,” he amends. “Look, Arthur, there’s always something or someone out to hurt you or kill you or create havoc in Camelot. I’ve only ever acted in your best interest. To keep you safe. To keep everyone safe.”

“So I’m supposed to trust that you had my best interests at heart and yet all the while you didn’t care enough to tell me the truth.”

“I did care, Arthur,” Merlin protests hotly. “I do care. It’s because of how much I… how much I care that I’ve never wanted to burden you with this.”

“Did you ever think that maybe it was my choice what I’d want to be burdened with?”

Shaking his head Merlin says, “I just didn’t want to put you in that position, Arthur. I couldn’t do that to you.”

Arthur goes silent for a very long time. Merlin sits next to him, listening to the sound of his harsh, heavy breaths.

“I need you to leave.” Arthur says flatly.

“What?” Merlin reels back, shocked. “No, Arthur, you can’t mean that.”

Arthur just frowns. “I do, Merlin. You need leave here.” He doesn’t sound angry, just so very cold and dispassionate. It such a reversal from the way things were between them such a short time ago that Merlin doesn’t argue. He slides out of the bed, feeling exposed and horribly humiliated as he gathers up his clothes and hurries to dress.

“What about tomorrow?” He asks softly as he pulls on a boot. “Should I bring you breakfast?”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t mean leave my room, Merlin. I mean leave Camelot.”

Merlin’s gaze shoots up to Arthur’s face then, expecting to see him smiling. He’s not. “You can’t mean that, Arthur.”

“My Lord.” Arthur bites out. “Not Arthur. Not again. And yes, I do mean it.” He lifts his chin, snide and imperious. “You’ve knowingly disregarded the laws of Camelot these past three years. You’re lucky you don’t end up with your head on the block.”

“But I heard it from your father’s own mouth, that the laws will change. Art—“ he stops himself at Arthur’s scowl. “My Lord, please. You must understand that I’ve only ever used magic to protect you. To protect Camelot.”

“I won’t tell my father,” Arthur offers, though it’s of no comfort to Merlin. “If you leave quietly and without a fuss. Even though you’ve lied to me and you apparently don’t trust me, I’ll still keep your secret, Merlin.”

“It’s not like that!” He tries, once again to point out.

“You’ve lied to me, Merlin.” Arthur slams a fist down on the bed. It should be funny the way it bounces back up. It’s not. “After you swore to me in Ealdor that you wouldn’t, ever again. All this time I thought I could trust you. That you were the one person who truly understood me. The one person I could—“ He snaps his mouth shut. “And all this time you’ve been lying to me and even tonight when I bared my soul to you, still that wasn’t enough. I cannot have you here.”

“Arth—“ Merlin catches himself with a low growl of frustration. “My Lord, you cannot make me leave Camelot. I must stay and I must protect you. It is my destiny.”

“Don’t you understand, Merlin. I don’t want your protection. I don’t ever want to look at you.”

“How can you say that?” Merlin sweeps his arm out in a gesture that takes in the disheveled bed and rucked up sheets. “How can you say that after we… after what we just…” He can’t say it. “What was this then?” he asks bitterly.

“It was goodbye,” Arthur says simply and sadly. And then he turns away.

Pain lances through his chest and Merlin fumbles for the door. He stumbles back to his own room blindly, ignoring the few people he passes in the hall. When he pushes inside Gaius wakes up with a startled snort.

He sits up, blinking owlishly, and then gets a look at Merlin.

“Merlin?” He exclaims, suddenly wide-awake and alarmed. “What’s happened?” He gets up from his bed and hurries over to lead Merlin to a seat.

“It’s Arthur,” Merlin chokes out. “Arthur knows about my magic. He’s ordered me to leave Camelot.”

“That’s preposterous,” Gaius huffs. “He cannot send you away.”

Merlin shakes his head. “He’s already done, Gaius. He wants me gone and I think the best thing to do right now is to just leave.”

“Merlin, you’re upset, clearly. As is Arthur I’m sure. Just stay here, and give him some time to cool down. I’m sure he’ll see reason in time.”

“Not this time, Gaius,” Merlin says sadly. “It’s just too many lies. He’s never going to forgive me, and I don’t blame him. I should’ve told him, Gaius. I should’ve trusted him all along.”

Gaius gathers Merlin up against him and pats him soothingly on the back. “Don’t you worry, Merlin, I’ll speak to him. Morgana will speak to him. We’ll make him understand.”

“No,” Merlin shakes his head again. “No, I’m going to do as he asks.”

When Gaius draws in a breath to protest Merlin hurriedly tacks on, “Just for a little while, Gaius. I’ll go to Ealdor to visit my parents. Arthur needs me gone for a while. And with Morgause and Cenred both dead, things are safe for him for the time being.”

“Are you sure this is what you want to do, Merlin?”

He sniffles, sucks in a lungful of air to get control of himself and then nods. “Yes, Gaius. I think this is what I need to do. I need to back off this time and give Arthur his space.”

“Very well, Merlin. When are you leaving then?”

Merlin looks around the room. It’s late. Probably closer to morning than night, but he feels no urge to sleep. “At dawn. I’ll slip out then.”

He stands.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to talk to Morgana before I go. I need to make sure she’s alright with everything that happened today. Don’t worry, Gaius, I won’t leave without saying goodbye.”

Gaius stands as well and pulls him back in for another smothering hug before letting him go.

He slips into Morgana’s room, carelessly using magic to hide himself from passing guard.

“Morgana,” he calls out softly. “Morgana, wake up.”

She jerks awake, just like Gaius did, but her waking is accompanied by a nearby candle erupting in a ball of flame.

Merlin douses it with a word, cursing himself for not realizing that after the day she’s had, Morgana might be on high alert.

“Merlin?” Morgana says sleepily. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.” He approaches the bed, lighting a less-melted candle on her night stand.

Merlin starts to wonder how much of his despair shows on his face when she takes one look at him, gasps softly and asks, “What is it? What’s happened?” Her fingers clench and tug at her bedcovers. “Is it Morgause?” As has become their custom, she makes room for him to settle on the bed next to her.

“No,” Merlin pats at her knee soothingly. “No, it’s nothing like that. Everyone is fine, everyone is safe.” He lets his gaze fall to the ornate carpet. “Well, not everyone.”

“Merlin, what’s happened?”

“In a minute,” Merlin pushes thoughts of Arthur away a moment. “First, I came to see how you’re doing. It’s been quite a day. I didn’t really get to talk to you about everything that happened in the throne room with Morgause. Are you alright?”

Morgana nods. “Honestly, Merlin, this whole day feels like one that passed in a dream. After you left the throne room,” she looks at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, “Uther was… well I’ve never seen him that way before. He was just devastated, I think. I think the knowledge of my magic has really thrown him and forced him to rethink his whole life.”

Merlin knows that he’s probably been reminded of the visit from Ygraine and her promise that magic was closer to Camelot than he knew.

“But then he just wanted to hold onto me. I think he was afraid of losing me. I don’t… I don’t know, Merlin. It was like he thought the fact that I have magic would tear me away from him.” She shakes her head, sending loose tendrils of her dark, bed-messy hair waving around the pale curves of her face. “I think he was more afraid of me than I was of him.”

“That’s…” Merlin doesn’t even know what to call that.

“I know,” Morgana agrees with a soft giggle. “It was just the most surreal thing, Merlin. And then all the talks with Gaius and with Arthur…” she must notice the way he flinches at Arthur’s name because she frowns and strokes a hand over his arm. “Well, let’s just say that I think things are going to be changing throughout Camelot with regards to magic.”

“That’s wonderful, Morgana.”

“It is. It will be slow, but I think Uther will continue to soften over time.” She laughs again. “Especially since he seems so keen on keeping me happy.” They share the smile for a few minutes, until Merlin is no longer able to keep one on his face. The weight of everything dragging it down.

Morgana rubs his arm again soothingly. “What is it, Merlin. Please.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath and then tells her. “It’s Arthur. He’s found out about my magic.”

“How?” she wonders and then hurries to say. “I didn’t tell him. Or my father. I didn’t tell anyone.”

“I know, Morgana. Arthur saw me use magic in the throne room today. I thought… well, I thought his attention was on the Knights of Medhir. I didn’t know he saw.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she says sadly. “Is he very angry?”

Merlin can’t help it. He snorts out a bitter laugh. “You could say that. He’s banished me from Camelot.”

“What?” She sits up, nails digging at his arm as she clutches tight to him. “No, Merlin, he can’t.”

“He’s said that he won’t tell Uther about me if I leave quietly.”

“How can he do this to you, Merlin? I thought he cared about you. I thought that…” she trails off, looking away guiltily and Merlin knows it’s because of those discussions she and Arthur have had.

“I thought so, too.” He says with sigh. “But, I lied to him, Morgana. And he can’t see past that. All this time I kept thinking we were something we’re not. I didn’t give us enough time to get there.” And that’s the crux of it. He’s been trying so hard to get them to a place that’s the same – better even – than the one he shared with Arthur in his past life, but one of the things he didn’t factor in was the years of trust and support that were the foundation of that deep and abiding friendship.

“I don’t understand.”

Merlin waves it away with a weary swipe of his hand. “Never mind, it’s not important. I’m going to leave, this morning at first light.”

“No, Merlin. You can’t. You know I need you here. I can’t face this without you. Look, I’ll talk to Arthur. Convince him to let you stay.” She grabs at his arm again, holding tight as if her grip can keep him in Camelot.

He pats at her hand. “Morgana, it’s alright. It’ll be alright. I’m only going to leave Camelot for a short time, to visit my mother and father in Ealdor. I’ll be back soon. And I’ll make sure we continue our training. Don’t you worry. I just need to give Arthur some space. Trust me, alright?”

Morgana doesn’t look happy, but she nods. “Alright, Merlin. Just promise me you’ll be back.”

“Nothing could keep me away, Morgana.” She pulls him in for a hug and he holds her tight for a very long time. For a moment he wishes his heart could’ve led him to Morgana instead of her brother. Things would’ve been so much easier.

Merlin leaves the city at first light, with only Gaius to see him off. He’s asked Morgana to explain things to his friends, and to give them his word that he’ll return. He does travel to Ealdor. He figures it’s as good a time as any as he’s wanted to visit with his parents.

He stays with them two weeks and the time does much to ease his troubled mind and heart. His mother doesn’t pry –though she knows there’s something wrong – and his father just offers his silent support. He learns more of the magic of Dragonlords, and he and his father escape to the woods a few nights to call Kilgharrah and Aithusa to them.

Merlin is thrilled to see that the infant dragon is growing healthy and strong. Kilgharrah assures him that she’ll be able to speak in the dragon’s tongue soon enough, and the tongue of men when she’s a bit older. He doesn’t ask Merlin about his fight against Arthur’s destiny, and Merlin doesn’t volunteer the information.

At the end of the two weeks he says farewell to his parents and makes his way back to Camelot. About a mile out of the city he reins in his horse and sneaks off into the woods to change. The man who comes out of the woods bears no resemblance to Merlin’s true self at all.

When he enters the city it’s in disguise as a simple woodsman, looking to trade for supplies. He seeks out Gaius of course and is pleased when Gaius doesn’t recognize him at first.

“Is there something I can help you with, young man?” Gaius asks, hardly looking up from his workstation. Merlin notices, sadly, the disarray of his quarters. Not that Merlin could ever keep up with organizing them; still, there was an order to the clutter that’s lacking here.

“I was looking to purchase a tincture of belladonna.” He says and that causes Gaius to look up at him sharply.

“Why on earth would you need something like that?” Gaius frowns suspiciously.

“Well, I’d like to use it to on a certain prattish Prince.” He grins. “Perhaps to give him terrible visions of being pelted with fruit.” He adds as a muttererd afterthought.

“Merlin?” Gaius asks incredulously. “Is that you, my boy?”

He nods. “Yes, it is.” He gestures up and down to himself. “Like the disguise?”

“I wouldn’t have known it was you, Merlin.” Gaius admits. “Well, until you opened your mouth. If you want to fool Arthur, perhaps it’s best if you keep quiet.” He frowns. “You are trying to fool Arthur, aren’t you?”

“I am.” Merlin agrees. “If he won’t let me stay in Camelot as myself, then I’ll just have to find another way to keep an eye on him.”

Gaius shakes his head and clucks his tongue.

“What’s the matter?” Merlin asks, feeling suddenly concerned. “Don’t you think it will work?”

Gaius looks him up and down again. “If you don’t get too close and don’t open your mouth.” He points a finger to Merlin’s face. “There something familiar around the eyes. Try to keep from looking him in the eye.”

Merlin nods dutifully. “I’ll do that, Gaius.” He makes arrangements with Gaius to help him out, giving him a place to stay (which, to be fair, is his old room that Gaius had no intention of giving up to anyone else) and helping get him placed into various positions in the city and the castle.

Over the course of the next few months Merlin adopts a variety of different disguises to keep himself near Arthur. It becomes almost a game to see how long he can spend in Arthur’s vicinity without him catching on.

Because Arthur always finds him out.

The first time Arthur catches him, it’s purely an accident. Merlin is posing as a worker in the royal stables and he’s got a bag of feed over one shoulder that he’s carrying in to share amongst the beasts when he’s bumped into from behind. He turns around just as the person who bumped him starts to apologize. It’s Arthur. At first when Merlin waves him away with a grunt Arthur accepts that and starts back towards his horse. Then he stops and spins Merlin around.

“I know you,” he says, narrowing his eyes to study Merlin’s face. “How do I know you?”

Merlin just shrugs and mumbles a low, “I dunno.”

Arthur cocks his head, staring closely into Merlin’s eyes. He blinks and shakes his head, trying to puzzle it out and Merlin tries to pull away. Then Arthur’s mouth falls open and he gasps out, “ _Mer_ lin?”

Merlin can’t deny it. He hefts a sigh and shakes his head and has to ask, “How did you know?”

Arthur doesn’t answer him that time. He just frowns and bites out. “I thought I told you to leave Camelot?”

“You did,” Merlin agrees. “And I _did_ , for a while. But I told you, Arthur, it’s my destiny to protect you and I won’t stop trying, even if you don’t want me around.”

That earns him a scowl. “Go on. Get out of my sight.”

Merlin obeys truculently.

The second time Merlin gets away with serving under Arthur’s very nose for a few weeks before he’s caught out. Disguised as one of Camelot’s own guards, he manages to keep out of Arthur’s sight, but near enough to protect the Prince should the need arise.

Until one day when he’s called upon to assist in catching a thief spotted pilfering apples from a fruit seller. He gives chase, but without much enthusiasm (they’re apples for goodness sake) and lets the boy-thief escape. That is until Arthur just happens to catch the young man as he’s walking by on his way to the practice field. He drags him back to the fruit vendor by the collar and makes the boy return the stolen fruit and apologize.

Then Arthur takes Merlin aside and starts to lecture him about not being lax in his duty even when that duty is unpleasant. How he mustn’t be lenient on crime because it will just escalate over time.

It’s when he realizes that Merlin isn’t really paying him that much attention (Merlin’s actually too caught up in staring at Arthur’s hair. It’s in wilder disarray than usual. He wants to ask if Arthur’s misplaced his comb again) that Arthur pays closer attention himself.

He studies Merlin’s face again and then blows out a disgusted breath. “Merlin!”

Caught out, Merlin can only nod. “Yeah.”

“Do we have to have this talk again? About how you’re not allowed in Camelot and how I’d better not find you here again.”

“Oh,” Merlin replies mulishly, “if we’re going to have that discussion, then let’s also have the one where I tell you that it’s my destiny to protect you and that a little thing like being banished from Camelot isn’t going to stop me.”

Arthur goes red in the face. “Merlin!” He points toward the nearest gate. “Get out.”

The third and fourth incidents where he gets caught are just bad timing.

It’s just truly blind luck that puts Arthur in the tavern on the day that Merlin is posing as a weary traveler. He blames fate, however, when Arthur and several of his Knights takes seats at the very table where he’s sitting. While he knew about the Knighting ceremony that added three more men to their ranks, he didn’t realize Arthur would join them in their carousing afterward. He can’t not join them in their dice game when they invite him to play.

He only has himself to blame, though, when he gets a little too raucous in celebrating his winning against the Crown Prince of Camelot and Arthur’s head snaps up and his eyes narrow and he bares his teeth. “Get out.”

One of the Knights there celebrating is Percival and he looks between Merlin and Arthur for a long moment and then shakes his head. “C’mon,” he grabs Merlin by the arm. “Let’s get you out of here. Too much to drink, this one.” He offers as explanation to his puzzled brothers-in-arms (and Arthur’s scowling face).

When they’re outside he lets Merlin go, pats him comfortingly on the back and just says. “Give him time, Merlin.” Then he goes back inside.

He tries to be more careful after that. He really does. He just had no idea that Arthur would ever come down to the kitchens to speak with the staff there personally. He supposes he should’ve been more careful when it came to leaving special treats and tidbits on Arthur’s meal trays, but he couldn’t help himself. When Arthur asks after the person who’s been preparing his trays the head cook points him out. Arthur is at least kind enough to take Merlin aside to the storage room.

“Look,” Arthur starts, his voice gentle. “I appreciate the kindness, but it’s highly inappropriate for you to try to curry favor with me by... well, bribing me with sweets. It won’t earn you any special treatment.”

Merlin, since he’s in disguise as a cooks helper and a girl, just keeps his head down demurely and nods at everything Arthur says.

“But thank you. I mean, it’s flattering but not at all appropriate.”

“Of course, My Lord.” Merlin replies.

And once again Arthur’s head snaps up. He lifts Merlin’s chin with a finger and peers into his eyes. “Merlin?” he looks Merlin up and down. “A girl, Merlin? Really?”

“How do you keep doing that?” Merlin asks plaintively. “I’m getting tired of coming up with new disguises.”

“Well then stop trying to come back and just get out like you were supposed to. And stop asking the others to speak to me on your behalf. Morgana, Lancelot, Gaius, Guinevere,” He sighs. “Even Percival sat me down the other day to have a chat. I’m getting tired of it, Merlin. You’re not supposed to be here.” Despite the harsh words, Arthur looks like he’s trying to fight a smile.

“I keep telling you, Sire, that I have no intention of leaving you for long.”

Arthur throws up in hands in aggravation and stalks away.

Over the next few weeks he tries to keep tabs on Arthur as a farrier, and a juggler, a minor nobleman and a drunkard and he even dusts off Dragoon the Great (since this Camelot has never seen him). He’s caught out in all of them. Sometimes Arthur yells and orders him out of Camelot, other times he shakes his head in rage and stalks away saying nothing. Once, he laughs so hard and so loud that Merlin finally gets offended and leaves on his own.

His final attempt is perhaps his most brazen. Merlin knows from court gossip that Arthur has not been able to keep a servant. He fires them all within a few days to a week at most, dissatisfied with every aspect of their service. Merlin is almost flattered by this.

So he fills the roll himself. In the guise of a poor village boy called Wendell, Merlin manages – with Gaius’ help - to get brought into the household staff and then he gets put into the rotation to be Arthur’s servant.

The first day he goes to Arthur’s room he finds it a complete mess. It’s oddly enjoyable to set it back to rights. When Arthur arrives he looks about, points out a dozen different flaws (most of which are just his imagination – except the flat pillows, because Merlin will admit to having forgotten to fluff them) and Merlin accepts the criticism good naturedly.

Arthur’s attitude works in his favor this time, because he barely deigns look at his servant anymore. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to look at them and see they’re not Merlin. This pleases Merlin to no end and it allows him to keep even closer to Arthur than he ever thought he’d be able to get.

It’s one night, two weeks into his service (which is a sight longer than any others have been able to keep the position), that Merlin finds himself alone with Arthur in the Prince’s room. It’s late and Merlin is behind on keeping up with Arthur’s armor.

Arthur, for some reason, is keen on supervising. He keeps moving into Merlin’s space where he’s sitting at the table, hunched over the armor with a polishing cloth and small brushes. He leans over Merlin’s shoulder, chiding him for missed spots an even reaching out to move his hands to demonstrate the locations of small dings and dents.

Merlin gets so flustered he knocks a vambrace off the table entirely. It rolls near the door. “Oh, I’m sorry! Let me get that, My Lord.” He stands and hurries to retrieve it. When he straightens from picking it up, Arthur is there. His back already to the door, Merlin has nowhere to retreat.

“You seem unsettled, Wendell.” Arthur places first one hand on Merlin’s forearm, and then the other. “Is something amiss?” He slides both hands slowly up Merlin’s arms, stopping only when he reaches Merlin’s shoulders. The soft curl of his fingers suddenly clench tight and he pushes Merlin against the door.

“N..no, My Lord.” Merlin gasps out, almost biting his tongue when Arthur moves his lips close to Merlin’s ear.

“Are you sure, _Wen_ dell?” His lips barely graze Merlin’s skin. “You do seem quite out of sorts.”

“Aa..Arthur…” he says tremulously, “please, it’s me. It’s Merlin.”

Arthur tightens his grip. “I know that, _Mer_ lin.” He pulls back with a scowl. “Do you think I’d do this to just anyone?”

Merlin shakes his head, rolling it against the door. “No, of course not.” He should’ve known. Just from the way Arthur said his name. Well, his assumed name. “How do you always know?” He has to ask. “How do you always figure out it’s me?”

Staring at him intently, Arthur is quiet a long moment. “Sometimes it was just in a way that you looked at me. Sometimes it was the way you said ‘My Lord’, so willful and defiant and sounding just like the dollophead you are.” His whole face breaks on a smile even as his chin wobbles slightly. “Always it was your eyes. There’s always something around the eyes, Merlin. I can always see you in them.”

“Oh.” The silly thing is that it’s the same thing that Gaius told him, what seems like a lifetime ago. He should’ve remembered. Maybe he didn’t want to remember.

The silence falls between them again, and Arthur still holds him, hand on either bicep, pushed up against the door. The space between them grows warm and Merlin feels his pulse start to race. “Aren’t you going to going to tell me to leave, or remind me that I’m banished from Camelot?”

Letting his head drop forward so it’s almost resting against Merlin’s chest, Arthur shakes it in the negative. “Will that work to keep you away?”

Merlin turns his mouth into Arthur’s bared nape. “No,” he whispers.

The damp heat of breath from Arthur’s laugh warms a patch of his tunic just above his heart. It sounds a little wild and a little desperate. “Then what would be the point? You’re just going to keep doing this, aren’t you? Showing up and vexing me and driving me mad having you so close and yet still out of reach.”

“Yes.”

“Then I give in.” Arthur sighs. He lifts his head. “Now, be you again, Merlin. I need to see the real you.”

Merlin lets the glamour fall away. He knows the moment it has because Arthur’s whole body falls lax against him and then draws him in closer.

“Please, Merlin, tell me there are no more lies between us.”

Shaking his head emphatically in to the crook of Arthur’s shoulder Merlin says, “No, My Lord. All of my truths are yours.” He sighs, just a bit sadly. “I do not know if I could ever remember all of them, to set them straight, but from here on out I will tell you anything you want to know.”

“I can live with that.” He pulls away again, staring at Merlin, seeming unable to look away. “And I have my own truths we musts face.” His smile falters. “I am bound by my duty to Camelot. My father has already been in talks with several different Kingdoms about potential alliances through marriage. My life is not my own to choose.”

Merlin can only nod. “I know, My Lord. I do not ask for more than you can give. Just let me remain at your side, always.”

“There’s no other place I’d rather have you.” The smile returns, bringing with it an eager gleam to Arthur’s eye. “Well, perhaps there are one or two other places.” He tugs Merlin away from the door, towing him backwards towards the bed. “And Merlin, you can call me Arthur again you know.”

“Arthur.” There is so much more in the simple statement of Arthur’s name. And Arthur hears it. He crashes his lips against Merlin’s, kissing him with all the passion and joy and love that Merlin feels in his own heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

The years progress well for Camelot and the city prospers.

Merlin’s knowledge of the future still serves him occasionally despite how far things have diverged from his predestined path. He makes sure that he and Arthur are visiting a certain tavern on a specific day so that they can get into a brawl and make the acquaintance of Gwaine.

While he uses his own magic to expose the men who attempt to kill the Prince in the Melee, he still manages to convince Gwaine to stick around Camelot. Eventually he even talks Gwaine into revealing the truth of his birthright so that Arthur can Knight him.

Arthur will continually bemoan that decision once Morgana and Gwaine start spending time together.

When Princess Elena and her father come to Camelot, Merlin takes care of the dual problem of her possession and her pixie nursemaid Grunhilda in a matter of a few hours after their arrival.

Uther, perhaps softened by his experiences with Morgana, doesn’t push Arthur into marrying Elena, although he points out – many times – how good the match would be for both his and Lord Godwyn’s kingdoms. Arthur chooses to ignore those less-than-subtle hints.

Merlin later seeks out Mordred and the druids and with Morgana acting as an emissary between the Druid people and Uther, manages to broker a peace between them. Mordred is the first of the Druid people to move to Camelot and Morgana is quick to take him under her wing. With her influence and Gwaine’s tutelage, he becomes the first official Knight of Camelot who is also a sorcerer.

When Agravaine comes to Camelot with offers to support Arthur after Uther takes ill, Merlin warns Arthur of his Uncles treachery. Uther recovers though – with Merlin and Morgana’s help – and Agravaine’s plot to kill Uther is revealed. He doesn’t fare well in Camelot’s dungeon.

Some things play out unexpectedly. Arthur is eventually asked – asked, not ordered – by Uther to marry the daughter of one of Uther’s allies. He agrees to the proposal and to a wedding some years in the future, as his betrothed is a just a girl of fifteen, still too young to marry.

Morgana flourishes with her magic, becoming a teacher and guide to all those who wish to practice without fear. Her personal life flourishes as well. It shouldn’t surprise Merlin that Uther accepts when Gwaine asks for her hand, but it does. Of course, Uther sees the benefit to the alliance, as Gwaine still has ties to a powerful family (as much as he hates to acknowledge that fact). Merlin also knows there is little Uther won’t do to ensure Morgana’s happiness.

To no one’s surprise, Lancelot and Gwen marry. They have their first child less than a year after; a son they name Tomas Arthur. Merlin watches for some sign of regret in Arthur’s eyes whenever he’s around Gwen and her family, but he sees none.

Merlin has spent so very long worrying over protecting Arthur and changing his fate, that it isn’t until after the date that Arthur was to fall at Camlann (a day that passes like any other in Camelot) he begins to truly see just how much he’s changed the future.

It’s only when the city is celebrating Uther’s own re-marriage (to Annis, of all people. Her husband fell ill after a wound festered and she and Arthur wanted to seal a peace between their Kingdoms), a full fifteen years after Merlin’s arrival in Camelot, that Merlin realizes he can breathe easy. He has spared Arthur his fate. Peace has come to Albion and magic is no longer practiced in secret or fear (though it’s use is still heavily regulated in Camelot, and several neighboring Kingdoms are slow to follow that trend).

Uther continues to rule. He lives on for many years. Which is certainly not something Merlin expected either. Still, rule will fall to Arthur someday, and in the meantime, as Arthur grows older he is happy enough in his life. Or at least content. He marries his young bride when she comes of age. She’s a sweet enough thing, kind to everyone and never questions Arthur’s need to have Merlin by his side.

Merlin knows the two of them grow to share a deep bond and comes to care for her. The two never have children though. Gaius, thin and stooped with age, proclaims sadly that she is likely barren. Merlin never suggests magic, and Arthur never asks.

They lose Gaius shortly after that, and he is mourned by the whole of Camelot.

On Uther’s deathbed, surrounded by a surprisingly large family, he proclaims the line of succession to pass to Morgana’s son upon Arthur’s death. Arthur doesn’t object.

If there is something missing from Arthur’s life, he never speaks of it. There are times Merlin finds him staring off in to space, his thoughts leagues away. But he shakes those moments off quickly and with a laugh.

Arthur’s own reign is marked by a lasting peace. The few conflicts that arise are hastily quashed and many years go by when the only concerns he has are things like petty squabbles between landowners and minor bandit uprisings that his Knights quickly dispatch.

It’s not until Arthur lays dying, a late spring fever settling into his lungs stubbornly despite Merlin and Morgana’s best efforts to cure, that Merlin finally sees the truth of it all.

After the Queen and their friends and family have gathered to say their farewells the Queen places a final kiss to Arthur’s temple and leaves Merlin alone with him. Merlin sits in the bed with Arthur, cradles Arthur’s body against his, letting Arthur’s head loll against his shoulder, smoothing away hair that’s long since gone silver and thin.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers in his cracking, wet-sounding voice that Merlin has to strain to hear.

“I’m here, Arthur.” He presses his lips to Arthur’s dry brow. “I’m always here.”

“I know, Merlin.” Arthur rasps. “Always at my side. I’ve always…” he starts and has to stop on a wheezing cough. “I’ve always thought my life would have more meaning, Merlin.” He says and there’s such an aching, great regret in his voice that Merlin gasps. “That I would come to stand for something more than myself. That I had some great destiny to fulfill.”

“But you do,” Merlin assures him, “You have. You are King Arthur. You united the kingdoms and brought peace to Albion.” But even as he says it, Merlin realizes how hollow those words are. He swore he would never lie to Arthur again, but as Arthur takes his last breaths, Merlin has to break that promise.

“No.” Arthur’s head moves minutely from side to side, the barest of head shakes. “No, that was all done without me. I’ve been a good king and a decent man, but I am not the kind of King who will be remembered.” He sighs out a rattling breath. “There is no one who will remember me, now.”

“That’s not true,” Merlin argues, holding Arthur tighter to him, failing to hold back the tears that soak into Arthur’s thin robe. “I will remember you, Arthur. I will never forget you.”

Arthur’s voice is nearly gone as he breathes out, “Thank you, old friend.” A long sigh follows and then nothing.

Merlin clutches Arthur to him and keens in sorrow and anger and regret.

He flees Camelot that night, going to a clearing in the woods that he hasn’t had the need to visit in many long years. He lifts his head to the skies and shouts, “O drakon, e mala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes! Erkheo!"

The dragon that swoops down from the sky eventually is moon-pale and graceful in a way that Kilgharrah never was. Aithusa bows her head to Merlin when she lands.

“Young warlock,” she greets, just the hint of a laugh in her tone. The name has become something of a joke between them. She adopted it from Kilgharrah early on, despite Merlin’s protests that she was actually younger than him.

When she’d first learned to speak in the tongue of men, Merlin was surprised by how high and light her voice was. Kilgharrah’s had always been a deep rumble that Merlin could feel in his bones. As she’s grown, Aithusa’s voice has deepened regally, but still maintains an oddly feminine quality that seems wholly un-dragonlike.

Merlin bows his head to her. “Aithusa. It has been too long.”

“Indeed,” she agrees. “What is it that causes you to summon me this night?”

Merlin has to choke back on a heaving sob. “Arthur,” he manages.

“I know, Young Warlock.” She says, not unkindly. “I felt his passing. I am sorry for your loss, little one.”

“Do you know of the magic that brought me here? To this time?” Kilgharrah knew, but Merlin’s never been sure if he shared that information.

Aithusa dips her head. “I do. Kilgharrah and I discussed it often. Every change you made to this world could be felt by us. Every divergence from fate was as a ripple in a pond, ringing ever outward and changing all that it touched.”

“I saved Arthur,” Merlin feels as if he has to argue this point. “I brought peace to Camelot and to Albion without the need to sacrifice Arthur.”

“You did, Young Warlock. It is, perhaps, not a peace of the same making, but a peace nonetheless.”

Merlin frowns. “What do you mean? Not a peace of the same making? I don’t understand. Isn’t peace still peace no matter how it was achieved?”

Aithusa sighs out a breath that rushes over Merlin like a warm summer wind. “In your true time the shadow of Morgana was a darkness that touched all, Merlin. Arthur’s sacrifice was the light that cleansed that darkness from the lands. It echoed through the ages.” She lifts one massive foot from the ground and scratches a furrow into the dirt with a fore claw. “It left its mark on time itself.” The foot stamps back down, rubbing the harsh line of exposed soil into nothing but a mish-mash of shredded grass and dirt. “This time there was no need for such a thing. Time has ebbed on.”

Stomach sinking with a heavy weight, Merlin swallows down a building dread. “Tell me this, Aithusa. In my old time, Kilgharrah told me that Arthur’s destiny was not at an end. That when Albion’s need was greatest he would rise again.” The words catch in his throat. “That he was the once and future king. Is this still true?”

Aithusa shakes her head slowly. “No, Merlin. I’m afraid it isn’t. Arthur’s time is done on this world.”

“Then why am I still here?” he shouts, raging. “Why have I stopped aging? Am I destined to live forever, alone, without him?”

“Merlin, the essence of yourself that lives in this body is still the one from your original time. It is tied to that life and your destiny there; no matter you’ve changed things. I’m sorry,” she tells him sadly, “but I do not know how long you are bound to this earth.”

“This is my price then.” He states bitterly, tasting bile and ash on his tongue. “The price I pay for my own hubris.”

Aithusa lowers her head and just barely bumps Merlin with the tip of her nose. “I’m sorry, Young Warlock. I wish it were not so.”

Merlin places a hand over the smooth scales. “Thank you, Aithusa.” He says, voice flat and empty.

Recognizing the dismissal for what it is Aithusa steps back and lifts her wings. “Farewell, Young Warlock.”

“Farewell, Aithusa.”

Merlin doesn’t return to Camelot. He cannot. There is nothing for him there any longer. His friends will live on, grow old and die. He never will.

Merlin retreats to the Crystal Cave. The shining facets no longer show him anything but his own reflection, but it’s as good a space as any to work. He leaves only to seek out knowledge of magic, scouring the known lands for as much information, both new and ancient, as he can.

It takes him some years, he loses track of how many except that he knows that Morgana’s grandson now sits the throne of Camelot, but he finally perfects the spell. He hews a chunk of crystal from one of the glowing stones and spends another span of years carving it with runes and sigils and symbols, and then still more months imbuing it with all the magic that he possesses.

Eventually it is finished. He takes himself to the Darkling Woods, to the edge of a clearing that’s familiar. He holds the intricately carved stone in his outstretched fist, speaks a word and then bites down against a scream as the very fabric of time and reality is torn asunder around him. The rush of heat envelopes him, then an icy brittle cold like nothing he’s ever felt. The smell of ash and sulfur and sunshine and blue sky assault his nostrils. Lights flash behind his eyes, and total darkness consumes him. There is a torrent of sound and absolute silence all at once.

An eternity passes by in the span of a moment, and when Merlin opens his eyes again, he’s standing at the edge of the same clearing, but this time there are two figures in front of him. He knows them both.

“What do you need me to do?” He hears his younger self ask.

The other figure, the one he hadn’t recognized when he was the sad, quiet young man stood across from him, says, “Just stand there and hold this.”

Merlin steps forward, a hand raised. “Stop.”

Both figures turn towards him. “Stop this,” he says again. “You cannot do this.”

His younger self stares at him, wide-eyed and alarmed. “Who are you?”

The other man, so non-descript and plain in his shapeless brown clothes and shapeless brown body, steps forward. “You cannot stop us.”

“I have to,” Merlin says urgently. “You don’t understand what it is you’re doing.”

The plain man throws off his dusty cloak and with it goes the magic disguising him. Merlin looks at a gaunt, wild-eyed version of himself. “You’re wrong. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Younger-Merlin looks between the two of them, frantic. “What the hell is going on here?”

Merlin points to his counter-part. “He is you, Merlin. No,” he amends, “he is _us_. We are all three each other.”

“I don’t understand?”

Older-Merlin, because Merlin can see that he’s actually showing signs of age – his hair is touched at the temples with grey and the lines under his eyes are carved deep and jagged and purple shadowed - shouts, “There’s no time for this. You cannot stop me.”

Merlin shakes his head sadly. “I will if I must.”

“You don’t understand,” Older-Merlin nearly screams. “I’ve waited over a thousand years, and still he has not returned. I have watched this world change, seen Kingdoms rise and fall, watched magic become the stuff of legend and all but forgotten, witnessed horror and atrocity and so much damned sorrow and yet he won’t come back. He doesn’t come back. I cannot live without him any longer, don’t you understand.”

He turns to Younger-Merlin, grabbing desperately at his coat. “You cannot know what it is like to face eternity alone. _You_ can change that. You can save him and we can be together.”

“No,” Merlin says, his voice as just as impactful for its silence and sorrow. “No, we can’t.” He touches his older self gently on the shoulder. “I am the product of what happens if this one goes back,” he nods to Younger-Merlin. “I have made this journey; I have gone back and done exactly as you want him to do.”

“Don’t tell me it’s impossible to change his destiny! I know we can save him!” Older-Merlin rages.

Merlin nods. “We can and I did.” He smiles, briefly, remembering all the changes he wrought. The lives he saved, the people who got to live and love and know peace. “And for a time, it was wonderful,” he admits, voice catching. “For a time everything was perfect. But there is no escaping destiny, not for us. I watched him die too, just as you did, this time as an old man that I held in my arms as he took his last breath.” He bows his head. “And then I learned that that was the end. That unless Arthur fulfills his destiny, there is nothing to bring him back.”

“No,” Older-Merlin counters, shaking his head frantically in sharp, jerking twists. “You can do it right. You cannot put us through another hundred lifetimes of waiting.”

“What am I to do?” Younger-Merlin asks plaintively. He clutches at the fabric above his heart. “It’s only been ten years without him and already I feel it like a wound in my very soul. I could go back, get those years back.”

“If you do,” Merlin cautions, “you will be trading an eternity alone for a few dozen years at his side. There is no future for Arthur in your lifetime if you go back. He will not rise again.”

“But you can fix that,” Older-Merlin argues madly, spittle flying from his mouth. “You know now, what to be careful of. You won’t make the mistakes he did,” he flings a wildly gesticulating hand towards Merlin. “You can go back and do it right!”

Younger-Merlin steps back and bows his head. “What must I do?” He asks in a small, lost voice.

Merlin holds out his own carved crystal. “You must use this to destroy us both.” He nods at his elder counterpart. “And you must live on and not lose hope. Have faith in Arthur.” He smiles, softly. “Know that we have always been in his heart.”

“No, please.” Older-Merlin pleads, his hand straining outward, palm flat and the stone wobbling precariously on it. “Please, you won’t be able to face it alone. You can change it. You can make it right.”

Merlin lifts his hand just a fraction. “Yes, you can make it right.”

Younger-Merlin takes a deep breath. Then he steps forward.

He takes a crystal from one outstretched hand…


End file.
